


Survival Quotient

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ark Survival Evolved Fusion, Animal Friends, Crack Treated Seriously, Cultural Misunderstandings, Dinosaurs, Dinosaurs Are Unreliable Narrators, M/M, Raptors Are Cats, Survival Sandbox, Video Game Mechanics Treated Seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9001999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: Waking up mostly-naked on the shore of a tropical island is, well, what one does on a tropical island.  Except the last thing Tony remembers is being in New York and a hell of a lot more dressed.  Also, they maybe have a tiny bit of a dinosaur situation, and he doesn't mean that metaphorically.  Much.





	1. Tutorial

**Author's Note:**

> So my newest coworker also happens to be a fan of both slash and gaming, and they stupidly gave us an office all to ourselves, which leads to conversations where I go off about playing Ark, and riding around on my Argent, and how I end up killing half the predators on the island every time I leave my base because I always find them ganging up on the herbivores and I can't stand watching them be bullies and omg it's like I'm channeling Steve. Which leads to us looking at each other and going, "Huh. Avengers on the Island." *facepalm laughs forever* She won't let me list her as a coauthor, but she knows exactly how much of this is her fault.
> 
> Note: I am a huuuuuge fan of taking video game mechanics and making them make sense. That said, certain things here will follow the spirit of the law more than the letter, most notably non-passive taming, because Creepy Stockholm Taming is Creepy. I'm probably just poking fun at anything else that wouldn't normally work. XD
> 
> Finally, I haven't listed Ark as one of the fandoms for the same reason I've disabled anonymous commenting: immature video game fanboys. No one's got time to deal with that shit, yo.

There's something really soothing about the roar and hiss of the ocean. It's enough to keep Tony from waking all at once, though sand as a mattress leaves a lot to be desired. The warm sun feels good on his skin, but as he shifts and stretches, he realizes first that that's...really a lot of skin, more than he's used to showing these days thanks to the scars on his chest and the arc reactor before that.

His second realization is that he feels like he's been beaten with rocks, which doesn't exactly jibe with his notions of a tropical getaway.

Sitting up with a groan, he leans back on his right hand and lifts his left to scrub at his face, and--

Stops. Stares.

What the _fuck_ is on his arm?

Lurching upright, he claws at the diamond embedded in his wrist--metallic, inset with a second diamond that glows a bright, warning red--but his short nails won't find purchase at the thing's edges. It goes _deep_ , his flesh healed seamlessly around it, like he's already had it for years. And that's...okay, yeah, he's a little creeped out here, because the last thing he remembers, he was in New York, at the tower, not even fighting. Funny thing is, it hadn't been just--

"Ugh," Barton groans blearily at his back. "Natasha? Was that you?"

"No."

Tony whips around, scrambling up onto his knees, and shit. _Shit._ The gang's all here.

One by one they all sit up: Barton and Romanoff, Bruce and Thor, Cap and Barnes because _someone's_ been listening to their own Smithsonian hype and taking 'inseparable' a little too literally. Thor reaches automatically for his hammer and scrambles to his feet when he realizes it's gone, holding his hand out expectantly. He strikes a listening pose after a moment, but nothing fucking happens. That...is a bad sign.

Barnes is next on his feet, but he holds his left side stiffly, angled unsubtly away until he clenches his jaw, forces his shoulders back, and pretends not to care who sees him like this. They're all wearing the same ridiculous little white shorts--and okay, so there are varying levels of ridiculous on display, but some of them look damn good for a man in his forties, is all he's saying--except that Romanoff's also rocking a sleeveless, strapless chest band number that shows off two bullet scars and a frighteningly blank expression.

Right, yes. Tony's officially terrified, and also doesn't give their kidnappers a snowball's chance in hell once Romanoff gets her hands on them. Or her thighs. Or her pinkie nail. Has she ever killed a man with an eyelash? She looks like she could kill a man with an eyelash. She looks like she's contemplating it very seriously.

Steve scratches absently at his left wrist as he heaves himself to his feet and freezes. "What the...?"

Tony's up like a shot, grabbing at Steve's wrist, and fuck. He's got it too. Inspiration has him lunging next for Barnes, who nearly stiff-arms Tony back before catching himself, but turning over Barnes' left arm reveals absolutely nothing.

"Jesus, Stark," Barnes grumbles, holding up his right arm with a look-don't-touch reluctance. Seeing the same implant on the wrong arm is both a weird kind of relief and a bitter disappointment.

"Shit," Tony mutters, shoulders slumping.

Barnes gives him a wary look as he tugs his arm free. "What?"

Tony shakes his head. "They're smart, whoever they are. If they'd installed that on the left, I could've taken it apart."

"With _what_?" Barnes scoffs, shifting uncomfortably back on his heels.

The question takes Tony momentarily aback. Right, _with what_ , because their kidnappers _are_ smart. They haven't just emptied his pockets; they've taken every stitch he had on, and that means _no_ tools, no hidden surprises other than the obvious. Thank God the suit implants aren't common knowledge, or he'd be--

"Uh," Bruce says quietly, staring off to his right. "I think we have a situation."

For a moment he thinks Bruce is staring at the tower off in the distance, or no, the obelisk, because Tony's sure as hell staring at the obelisk: so huge it's hard to get a sense of how far off it is, lit up at the top by a glowing diamond that's a match for the one set into their implants, and also floating in midair with no visible source of thrust to keep it airborne. Then he takes a better look at just where Bruce's eyes are aiming.

The sandy beach they've found themselves on is empty, but off to Tony's left, the water seeps inland, lapping noisily around thick stands of scraggly trees whose roots arch up out of the marsh like crazed stilts. A toad roughly half the size of a VW Beetle eyes them, lazily flicking its tongue out to snap a nightmare dragonfly out of the air, but Tony's more concerned with the genuine fucking pterodactyl soaring overhead. And the enormous, furless, four-legged _thing_ grazing on the unfamiliar bushes and the tops of the trees. And the massive fucking crocodile--make that crocodiles--that...fuck. They're lumbering this way.

"Shit," Tony breathes, and--

"Run!" Barton yelps, which _absolutely_ sounds like a good idea.

"Tony! Your pack!" Bruce shouts, which makes zero sense, only when he looks back at where he'd been lying when he woke, there it is.

"We're fucking naked!" he grouches as he scoops it up, shaking it a little even though he's certain by the weight that it's empty. He's right. "Why the fuck do we have backpacks if we've been left here naked?"

"Be grateful!" Bruce shoots back. "And we're not naked!"

Steve actually hesitates until Barnes grabs him by the arm and starts tugging. Tony notices that Barnes doesn't even try to drag Rogers out of the hindmost position, even though the pair could have outrun the lot of them. The Winter Soldier might have been an unstoppable murder machine, but Bucky Barnes knows how to pick his battles.

"So are we just not talking about the pterodactyl?" Clint asks as he runs.

"We could not talk about the triceratops, if you'd rather," Natasha offers, deadpan.

Wait, the what?

Tony looks around wildly. There's nothing but ocean off to his right, but to his left the shore is bounded by a line of short cliffs covered in thick forest at the crest. It's hard to see through the gloom between the trunks at first, but then something moves.

Holy shit.

"I thought _Jurassic Park_ was just a movie," Barnes says. He sounds uncertain, like he's waiting to be corrected.

Tony nearly stumbles as a bark of hysterical laughter escapes. They're in a movie--only not literally, he hopes, or...maybe he does. He's an action hero, after all, not a sidekick. Barnes is the one in trouble if they're playing by movie rules.

He really, really hopes they're just on some crazy villain's island lair instead. It might take a few hours, but the suit he's called will reach him soon enough, or FRIDAY will send a Quinjet, or both. If they've been sent back into the past, however....

He really fucking hates that time travel is a thing.

They keep running until Tony's got a stitch in his side and Bruce is gasping for breath. Their supers--soldiers and spies alike--look barely winded when Cap calls a halt. Thor keeps watching the sky.

"So," Tony begins, refusing to pant. He really needs to fit more treadmill into his day. "Does anybody remember how we got here? Wherever 'here' is?"

Thoughtful frowns and headshakes all around. Barnes looks especially pissed, but also especially resigned. Steve hunches a shoulder. "Last thing I remember, we were all in New York. At the tower."

"More dressed," Barton chips in wryly.

Tony huffs. "Okay, first, this is not my fault."

Steve blinks at him owlishly. "No one said it--"

"Being at the tower was just a coincidence. You probably jinxed _me_ by all showing up out of the blue--"

"I thought you wanted to talk communications for the compound," Romanoff reminds him, arching a brow.

Bruce one-ups her and arches _both_ brows, hiding a smile. "You invited me for a working retreat."

"Uh, fixing my arm?"

Clint cocks a thumb in Romanoff's direction. "I'm with her."

"Same," Cap adds, tilting his head at Barnes.

They all turn to Thor, who sheepishly ducks his head. "Er...Jane barred me from the lab for being too distracting. Is it not the custom to visit one's friends when...exiled?" he asks, settling on the word like he knows it's not quite right but isn't certain his AllSpeech isn't acting up on him.

Tony just manages to swallow a laugh. "Right. Okay. Still not my fault," he insists, "but whatever. So. From the looks of it, we've been kidnapped, repackaged, and left to fend for ourselves, which--minus the dinosaurs--is pretty much the setup for every survival game ever."

"So our objective is to survive," Cap sums up wryly.

"Nope, our objective is to figure out who did this and kick their collective asses, but in the meantime, yes, survive." Tony looks at the others then out across the wide mouth of the river they've fetched up near and winces. "Also, is that a T-Rex? I'm pretty sure that's a T-Rex."

It is a T-Rex. Fuck his life.

They can't stay where they are--there are crocodiles at their back, and an eagle-vulture thing with a beak as large as Tony's head takes vocal offense at their presence when it flaps in for a landing--so they press on. They get a better look at the obelisk off in the distance as they follow the river inland, but as the clouds clear away from a vast, snowy mountain off to the north, they spot a second obelisk, just as massive as the first.

"We should check those out," Steve says, frowning thoughtfully at the second. "Later. When we're better prepared."

At least Tony's not the only one who wants a closer look.

They hold a brief discussion about following the river inland, but there are even more carnivores visible in that direction, so they wade across at the river's shallowest point while the T-Rex picks a fight with a megaturtle.

Hoping not to be noticed, they stick close to the tree line. Tony has some vague idea that triceratops and rhinos probably have the same reaction to strange new creatures imposing on their territory, but the trio of trikes they pass ignore them utterly in favor of grazing. It's honestly pretty fascinating, but Tony doesn't give in to the urge to stop and stare until a long, long neck rises up above the trees beyond the next bend in the shore.

"Holy shit," he breathes. "Is that a Brontosaurus?"

"Ah, Apatosaurus, actually," Bruce says automatically, "though there's a British-Portuguese team putting together a study that--"

"Don't mess with the classics," Tony scolds, lengthening his stride. Steve snorts. "And not a word from the peanut gallery."

It's not long before he finds himself grateful for his abbreviated wardrobe. The higher the sun climbs, the hotter the air gets, though it's bearable under the trees. He guesses the more-than-tropical heat makes sense, although--

"Oxygen," Bruce reminds him grimly.

\--right, the atmosphere's oxygen content used to be a lot higher to go along with a hotter, wetter climate. It's simply not feasible to recreate a lot of prehistoric species, like the pair of scorpions he'd briefly glimpsed upriver: massive amounts of genetic tampering aside, they shouldn't be able to _breathe_. Biology doesn't work like that.

"So are we in the past or not?" Barnes asks, impatient.

Has he been rambling aloud all this time?

Barnes rolls his eyes.

Right. Of course he has.

Tony glances at Thor, who keeps looking worriedly to the sky. Still no hammer. Shit.

"Sorry, Dorothy," Tony says with a shrug, infinitely more casual than he feels. "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."

Even hearing Cap and Barnes mutter "I get that reference" in unison can't distract him from the icy dread gnawing away at his gut.

***

"Empty?" Barton asks, his hopeful tone at odds with his question.

"Afraid so," Romanoff says as she glances up from her own pack. Tony still can't figure out why whoever dumped them here left them with backpacks; it makes no sense at all to furnish the enemy with any sort of tools.

It's quiet under the trees. Hot as hell, but quiet. Tony's grateful for the chance to rest his aching feet, though he'd rather have his fingernails pulled out one by one than admit it aloud. He'd rather not open that line of conversation again, the one about how much he relies on the suit, but Steve hadn't looked at him _or_ at Bruce when he'd cast that concerned glance at the sun and called a break. A glance at Barnes and the two had split up, walking out a perimeter, but they're back now and no longer making the rest of them look bad.

Well. There is the matter of those tiny white shorts.

"Stark?" Barton calls.

Fuck, his wrist itches. Well. Not really--not physically--but mentally it nags at him. He is fucking sick of waking up in sandy places with weird shit grafted to him.

He grunts to show he's listening, though he knows what Barton's question will be. He could just answer it, sure, but where's the fun in that?

"Have you checked your pack?" Barton asks patiently.

Right. Tony sighs as he lifts his arm to examine his implant again. What _does_ he have in his feather-light--

The implant's glow turns arc reactor blue as data smears itself across his retinas: latitude, longitude, temperature, the weight he's carrying and the _empty status of his goddamn backpack_.

Spitting a startled curse, Tony lunges to his feet and scrapes his back up on the bark of the tree he was leaning against, cracking his skull against it as he tries to take an instinctive step back while clapping his right hand over his eyes. The others jump up after him, and he doesn't quite fight it when Bruce wrestles his left arm down and out to take a better look.

The blue glow fades as Tony cracks an eye open and peers between his fingers, seeing nothing but trees and dirt and worried faces. "What happened just now?" Bruce asks, turning his arm this way and that. "Your implant changed colors."

"Not all it did," Tony mutters, staring at the thing warily. "I think it's some kind of HUD, or--it was feeding me coordinates, a few status reports, just...not until I looked at it. Not until I wanted to know something."

And how the hell had it managed to determine that, unless it's wired right into his brain?

Not cool. He is not cool with that _at all_.

There's another blue flash from a few feet away: Steve, of course, staring into the blue glow of his own implant with a clenched jaw. Barnes mutters something uncomplimentary Tony can't quite make out but is certain Steve understands perfectly.

He doesn't really _want_ to like Barnes, but the guy sure makes it difficult not to.

When nobody keels over dead or gets their brains fried through their eyeballs, they all have to try it. Tony still doesn't get it. It's not hugely useful intel, but why are the bad guys giving them access to _any_ intel? None of this makes sense.

"Huh," Barton says. "I have an inventory. Think this thing will show me my EXP to next level?"

"This isn't a game," Cap chides, but he doesn't sound certain. Hell, Tony's not certain, and it's the kind of thing you really want to be sure of.

"Look," he says instead of arguing the creepy live-action entertainment angle. "Even if we start heading for those obelisks right now, we don't have a clue what we're going to find or how long it's going to take to get there, so maybe we should start thinking about food and shelter. Tools. Weapons. The basics."

"Agreed," Steve says instantly, then looks at Barnes.

Barnes snorts. "Hey, I got the same survival courses you did, pal. I can do a lot with a little, but I gotta start with _something_."

Thor nods apologetically. "The same, I fear. My friends and I slept rough many a night, but we always went provisioned."

Romanoff shakes her head with a tight smile; Barton just sighs. "The one time my Stone Age weaponry actually fits the situation...."

"Right," Tony says. Really he's not surprised. "We're going to need wood and plant fiber to start--palm leaves for thatching is good, but also something strong and flexible we can use for lashing. Also rock--round and sharp both, flint if you can find any." And...cue the staring. He plants his hands on his hips and pastes on his best smirk. "What? Did you think I wouldn't read up on this stuff after the fifth time I broke out in the middle of nowhere?"

Romanoff's tiny little smile of approval is better than a goddamn medal, not that he's going to say so. He wouldn't want her to get cocky.

"So? Chop-chop," he urges, clapping his hands together. "Time's wasting."

"You heard the man," Barton says with an easy shrug. "Let's go punch some trees."

Steve looks startled, but Tony groans. "I should've known you were a Minecraft geek."

"And yet you know _exactly_ what I'm talking about."

Tony huffs a laugh. "Yeah, well," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guilty as charged."

***

Tony feels like an idiot, but he stands shoulder to shoulder with Bruce and joins in the staring. He can't deny it's the only appropriate response.

The bird stares back, ruffling its feathers with a contented warble. It's nearly waist-high, greyish, and it has no fear of them whatsoever. That actually makes sense, considering.

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Bruce asks, almost like he's hoping Tony isn't.

"Are you seeing an extinct flightless bird popularly known as the dodo?" Tony has to ask, just in case.

"Yeah, that's...pretty much exactly what I'm seeing, yes."

"Yep." Tony nods slowly. "What the _hell_ is a dodo doing in Dinosaur Land?" he demands when he can't take it anymore.

"I have no idea. Just...maybe it's not just dinosaurs. Here. Maybe it's extinct animals in general, like...like a nature refuge, or a zoo."

"Right. A zoo. So...why are we here again?"

Bruce opens his mouth and thinks better of it, pressing his lips together tightly as he watches the find of the century peck at shiny pebbles. "Do you actually want to hear theories for that?"

"Not even a little bit."

"Hm," Bruce says with a strained smile. "Good choice."

Tony nods again. The dodo tries to walk right through Bruce, changing direction only at the last minute.

"So," Tony says. "Are we going to eat this thing or what?"

***

"Is that a dodo?" Romanoff asks as she and Barton return with their packs full of rocks and their arms full of greenery. Combined with the bamboo Barnes dropped off earlier--stalks snapped so cleanly Tony wishes he'd done more strength tests on Barnes' shiny new Wakandan-made arm when he'd still had the chance--they're maybe getting somewhere. "You killed a dodo?"

"What? No!" Tony protests, casting a nervous glance at Bruce. It is still alive, right? "It's asleep. It ate the berries. Twice."

"Clearly that was its first mistake," Romanoff says with more gravitas than the situation really warrants. "Which berries were these again?"

"The black ones," Bruce replies without turning, methodically stripping a bush of its fruit and depositing it by the handful in a makeshift basket. They look a bit like blackberries, only they're bright blue. "I'd stay away from those, but the red, yellow, purple and blue ones appear to be fine."

"Einstein there likes the yellow ones best," Tony adds as he sorts through the haul, "but there's no accounting for taste."

Barton snorts. "Einstein? You named the dodo Einstein?"

Tony blinks, brows shooting up. Named it? Einstein? He'd meant that as a joke--hello, dodo--because they're not exactly collecting pets here. They'd needed a poison tester and the dodo was there.

"Uh," Tony says, trying to decide whether Barton's fucking with him or not.

"Guys?" Steve calls as he strides out of the trees, Barnes keeping pace a step behind. Steve's wearing a slightly freaked look that doesn't bode well, and Barnes looks like he's had all expression surgically removed. "I think we've found a decent spot to hole up for the night. Fresh water, high cliff sides, only three ways in or out unless you can fly."

"Or fall in," Barnes amends flatly, always the cautious one. "But even a dino's going to hurt after that."

"Right. Thing is...I don't think we're the first ones to have found the place."

Tony has to run that that through his brain a second time, because if Cap's saying what Tony thinks he's saying, then...he has no idea whether this is good news or bad.

"Good thing I didn't build that fire pit yet," Tony says, rising to his feet and dusting off his hands. He wants to demand to be taken there right away, but now's not the time to hare off on their own or leave anyone behind, and Thor's still out looking for supplies.

It doesn't take them long to pack up, everyone working with their usual efficiency and none of their usual banter, too consumed by curiosity to pepper Cap and Barnes with questions they probably won't be able to answer. Thor returns just before Tony's patience can fray entirely, lugging an armful of vines and with a salmon the size of a small dolphin slung over one shoulder. That should be everything, but Barton hesitates before they can get moving.

"What about Einstein?" he asks, glancing from Tony to Bruce and back.

"Einstein?" Steve asks, shaking his head.

Barton jerks his chin towards the shore. "The dodo."

Steve's eyes go wide. "You killed a dodo?"

"It's just sleeping!" Tony protests. It's not like he single handedly drove them to extinction a second time; there are plenty more where that one came from. He checked.

"Well, if we leave it here, something's going to eat it," Barnes points out reasonably.

"If we take it with us, I'm going to eat it," Tony warns.

Thor laughs at him outright. "If you're still hungry after the feast I brought, you're welcome to try."

Thor's pleased as punch with himself, but at least he's not smug about it. And salmon steaks do sound a lot better than gamy, oversized pigeon.

"It makes a good test subject," Bruce points out with a shrug.

Tony sighs. "Fine. We'll take the stupid bird. Literally."

He's not carrying it, though. The damn thing is huge.

***

Steve's right about the not-quite-valley nestled between the cliffs. It's perfect: packed with resources, easily defended, the entrances hidden by boulders and trees. There are a few dinosaurs roaming inside, but it's just a small herd of crested, duck-billed things--

"Hadrosaurs?" he guesses, thinking back to his brief--very brief--childhood obsession with all things dino-related.

"Broadly," Bruce says with a smile. "From the crests I'd say they were Parasaurolophus."

\--and a pack of fire lizards.

"Dimorphodons," Bruce corrects him, trying manfully not to laugh. He tries very hard. "Pern, Tony? Really?"

"Whatever. It's still sci-fi." So he's always wanted to fly. Sue him.

Steve also wasn't kidding about the place having been settled once before. There are actual ruins at one end of the sheltered valley, though there's not much left: just one corner of a crumbled, mossy wall, a few stubs of pillars and a pair of arches ready to collapse entirely. A few dirt-clogged openings in what's left of the wall might have been intended as arrow slits or maybe ventilation; the architecture isn't exactly jumping out at him as belonging to any one place or time.

"Well," Bruce says as he wiggles a finger into one of the wall holes, digging away a layer of dirt. "It does seem like this place has seen human habitation before--or something like it, anyway."

"Sleestaks," Tony says wisely, ignoring the weird looks the others give him.

Bruce snorts but doesn't dismiss the notion out of hand. "Possibly. We've already had ample proof that we're not alone in the cosmos. Maybe we're just the most recent additions to the collection."

"Lucky us," Tony mutters, trying not to think too hard about the nature of that collection, how all the others are all extinct.

When they get tired of poking at a mystery they have no hope of solving, they set up camp, Tony sorting through what the others brought him while Bruce and Thor set about digging out a firepit near the shore of the oversized pond. The water's clear, but they really need to find a way to boil and strain it before anyone goes dipping a hand in. They're taking a big enough risk with the berries, dodo testing or not.

He's not quite sure where Romanoff went off to, but as he pauses to wipe his brow, he spots Barton on the heights, having found a way up somehow. He thinks he hears a muffled curse from that direction, but he's not certain until Barton calls down to them, voice tight.

"Hey, guys? You're going to want to take a look at this."

"Again?" Tony groans, pushing aside the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "My heart can't take this."

"I'm pretty sure your heart will go on," Bruce says dryly.

Tony makes a cross with two fingers to ward him off. It doesn't help.

Fucking earworms.

Natasha appears out of nowhere and guides them up to the top of the cliffs, and then all Tony can do is stare. Dotting the landscape at irregular intervals are signal flares, huge and brilliant, in a rainbow of colors bright enough to be seen from miles off. Some rise up from the ground in thick columns, but a few lance down from boiling snarls of electricity centered in the clouds. Tony can just make out dark diamond shapes lowering slowly along the track of the light beams like a dropping elevator or a pod coming in for a landing.

"Is that some sort of ship?" Tony asks, turning his face towards Barton without pulling his eyes away from the show. If enemy troops are landing, then this probably isn't a zoo; it's a hunting preserve, and they're pretty much fucked.

Barton shakes his head. "I don't think so. The lights change when those pod things land--see?" he says pointing at a far-distant light near the top of a nearby mountain. Tony can't even make out the pod, but he watches the long column of light spilling out of the heavens wink briefly out, only to flare up again from the ground. "Most of them have landed in the trees, but I got a good look at two, and nothing's come out. They just sit there for a few minutes, and then they blow up."

"Bombs?" Steve asks sharply.

Barton shakes his head again. "More like a self-destruct. The pod collapses. Barely leaves a mark."

"It sounds like some sort of supply drop," Romanoff says thoughtfully. "Or bait for a trap."

"Or maybe it's a different kind of bait," Bruce says, brushing his hair out of his eyes as the wind picks up. "If this place really is a zoo--"

"A _zoo_?" Steve echoes, eyes wide.

"--maybe they're trying to lure the exhibits to the viewing area."

"I don't think I like the sound of that," Clint mutters.

Tony doesn't like it much either. He still wants to intercept one of those things and take it apart. The chance to learn what their abductors want is worth the risk.

"So," Bruce says into the silence that descends. "Late lunch? Early dinner?"

"I think I did most of the cooking back in the day," Bucky offers. He doesn't sound certain, which doesn't exactly fill Tony with confidence.

"I've got it," Bruce says with a shrug. "It's just chemistry."

"That," Tony scoffs, poking a finger into Bruce's chest, "is a damn lie."

Bruce just smirks. So unfair.

Tony's gotten used to Bruce's company in the lab and the workshop, to random people who aren't Rhodey or Pepper or Happy wandering in for other things and getting stuck watching him work. Steve's the most hilarious about it, because he gains a "can-I-just" tic that includes aborted reaching for heavy objects and a permanent grimace.

It's a bit different now that he's the _only_ entertainment, but there's not much interesting about watching him grind two rocks together. The highlight is when he balances one rock sidelong atop another, makes eye contact with Barnes, and says, "Come over here and give me a hand."

Barnes snorts, the corners of his mouth tipping up minutely in a smile that's mostly around the eyes.

At least someone gets his sense of humor.

It's edging towards dusk when something comes whistling through the air that has their supersoldiers scrambling up, poised to take cover before the rest of them hear a thing. Cap spots it first, relaxing all at once, which Barnes takes as his cue to stop dithering over who to tackle to safety: Cap or a civilian.

When Thor's hammer slams into the grass at his side, burying itself two inches into the dirt and rattling the logs in the fire pit, Thor just beams, relieved.

"Wait," Bruce says, glancing up at the sky. "How long did that take?"

Barton hunches a shoulder. "Uh...maybe a dozen hours? Give or take?"

Bruce frowns. "And how fast does that thing travel?"

Thor rests a hand on Mjølnir's handle, as if the heft of her might give him a clue. "Very fast indeed, at need. I've never really considered it. I just...call, and she answers."

"Has it ever taken this long for her to arrive?" Romanoff asks, tilting her head.

"No. Even when I was rattling through worlds like the last coin in a purse, she found me quickly enough."

"We're definitely not on Earth, then," Bruce says heavily. "And I don't think we're in the past, either. Remember what we said about the oxygen level of the atmosphere?" he asks, glancing past Tony to draw the others in. "That was during Earth's superhabitable phase, some three hundred million years ago. It was because of that high oxygen percentage that arthropods like Pulmonoscorpius could exist. Giant scorpions," he clarifies for the rest of the class.

"Like those uglies we saw upriver?" Barnes asks with a frown.

"Yes. Sort of. You see, Pulmonoscorpius topped out at about twenty-eight inches. The things we saw had to've been six feet long." Bruce pauses a moment to let that sink in and slowly shakes his head. "We'd be feeling the effects ourselves with that sort of oxygen imbalance, only we're not. So either we've been changed or they have, and honestly, my money's on them. Something made them big. It could also have adapted their respiratory systems to a new environment."

"So you think we've been taken off-world," Steve says flatly.

Bruce shrugs, palms upturned. "By my best guess? Yes. As to what our chances are that someone's going to come looking for us...."

Tony must not be the only one thinking of all-seeing retainers, because they all look at Thor.

Thor only sighs. "I am yet my father's heir," he says, almost like he's been trying to get _out_ of it. "I'm afraid that complicates more than it solves. The actions I take could be construed as the actions of Asgard. As such it's been considered more politic at times to leave me to my own devices."

Tony barks a humorless laugh before he can censor it. "Wow, that sounds familiar. In other words, you made your bed, and now you get to lie in it."

"Even though you were kidnapped? Or does that have anything to do with being kidnapped with us?" Barton asks shrewdly.

Thor drops his eyes, his thumb tracing the leather bindings of Mjølnir's haft. "My father is...set in his opinions," he says, then clams up immediately. Tony can definitely relate.

"Right," Tony says. "So. Probably no help from Asgard, unless something happens they can't ignore. Earth...well, probably no help there either, unless the Maximoff kid's scarier than she looks or Vision's got some trick up his sleeve, and even then, there's no guarantee they'd be able to reach us in the first place. So that pretty much leaves us. I mean. No pressure."

"But Tony," Steve pipes up suddenly, wearing an apple-cheeked choirboy expression Tony doesn't trust at all. "I thought you worked best under pressure."

"That's right," Romanoff purrs. "We did bring a genius with us."

"Two," Barton amends with a shark-like grin for Bruce.

"And a few strong backs to do the heavy lifting," Barnes chips in with a faint little smile. "What more did you need?"

"Oh, I don't know, a fabricator?" Tony grumbles, torn between wanting to preen and the urge to knock heads together until they see what a fucked-up mess this is. "A trans-spatial gateway keyed to the penthouse? Coffee?"

"We'll figure it out," Cap promises, so earnest all Tony can do is groan.

"Oh God, not the Boy Scout routine. Brucie," he whines obnoxiously, leaning into Bruce's shoulder, "you said you wouldn't let the bad man do it again."

"There, there," Bruce consoles him with a pat, trying to keep a grin under wraps.

Steve shakes his head, but he lays off and lets Tony have his minor panic attack in peace. Shit. It's all on him, isn't it? Well, him and Bruce, and it's not like the others won't _find_ ways to pull their own weight, but when it comes down to the nuts and bolts of it....

Worse than he hates people relying on him, he hates being the one to let them down.


	2. Torpor

There are new creatures on the beach. Or maybe they've been here before. Some are loud and some are quiet, but the quietest of the flock have a bright red crest and a shiny silver wing. Maybe that makes the loud ones hens for a change.

Mottled Grey's head hurts just trying to figure them out.

After much squawking and some wing-clapping from the littlest hen, the flock breaks apart. Littlest Hen and Doe Eyes stay behind. They scratch at the trees, Littlest Hen squawking continuously. Maybe she's broody. Mottled Grey can sympathize. She doesn't have a mate right now--her last one was blue, she thinks, or a kind of sunset red? No, he was definitely purple--but she remembers how uncomfortable being egg-heavy can be.

Littlest Hen starts tugging at the tree-fronds she pulled, tugging them around and around and--oh. The poor thing's trying to build a nest, but it's so _small_.

Mottled Grey feels sorry for Littlest Hen. It's clear she has no nest-building skills at all.

Ooh, but there's a round, smooth something half buried in the sand, right under Mottled Grey's feet. She pecks it. Swallows.

Not very tasty. Probably not food.

When she looks back at the trees, there are new creatures on the beach. They've been here--no, they're _still_ here. She remembers. And Doe Eyes has the unsatisfactory nest now. She's loading food into it, as if to say, _See? Your nest is so awful, your eggs will be nothing but dinner._ Poor Littlest Hen.

Doe Eyes looks at Mottled Grey like she heard that. Mottled Grey ruffles her wings and pretends to remember nothing, nothing at all. Doe Eyes looks at Littlest Hen and squawks. Littlest Hen squawks back like she's already forgotten the insult. Littlest Hen must be very strong and kind.

Doe Eyes stops pecking at the bush she's busy with. She walks toward Mottled Grey, bringing the unsatisfactory nest with her. That's curious, but--

Ooh, but there's a round, yellow something rolling right up to Mottled Grey's feet. She pecks it. Swallows.

Tasty. Probably food.

When she looks back at the trees--

Doe Eyes stands with the unsatisfactory nest in the curve of one wing. There is a round, yellow something. Mottled Grey pecks it. Swallows.

Tasty.

The round, yellow somethings keep appearing. No, the round, red somethings. Purple? The blue and not-so-round. It's all terribly exciting.

A round something rolls up to her, and Mottled Grey pecks. Swallows.

_Oh_ , she realizes too late.

As she slips sideways, the world goes black, black as a ripe berry.

That was the wrong color.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, even numbered chapters are dinosaur POVs. Yessssss.


	3. Tame

As the sheltered camp below begins to stir, dawn finds Bucky walking the heights, watching for an enemy that hasn't arrived. The slow, silent plod of patrol is familiar right down to his bones, but his hands itch for the weight of a rifle. Though he's well-hidden by the trees, he feels exposed without a weapon. The arm doesn't count.

Halfway down the slope of a neighboring mountain, another landing pod gives up the ghost with a burst of light and a faint, staticky whine that echoes off the barren rock. No enemy troops bolt for cover this time either, but the pods' very presence makes the back of Bucky's neck itch. He'd told Steve the evening before that he'd wake him for a turn at watch, and God knows he could probably use the sleep himself, but instead he'd spent the night pacing the circumference of their little refuge, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He's not sure whether he's more relieved or annoyed that it hasn't yet.

"Okay, you guys," Barton calls out, waking the few who are still sleeping. Mainly that amounts to Thor, Stark and Banner; Natasha disappeared not long ago, presumably to take care of business, and it's been nearly an hour since Steve unfolded from the lonely curl he'd made of himself the night before, pausing only to stare up at Bucky for a long moment before shaking his head, shaking out his limbs, and striding off to walk the perimeter from below.

"Unh?" Stark grunts as he blearily opens an eye, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he sits up.

Barton grins. "Wakey, wakey, eggs and--er, salmon. Actually. Also, Einstein's a girl."

"Salmon? For breakfast?" Tony says with a grimace. "Go back to where you were about to say 'bacon'. Didn't we see a whole herd of demon pigs on the way here?"

"Phiomia, Tony. And they're more closely related to elephants," Bruce says, rising heavily to his feet. From what Bucky understands, Banner's no stranger to living rough, but a body can get used to a proper bed, and being able to turn into the Hulk isn't a cure for aging knees or a cricked neck.

"Elephant bacon," Tony says thoughtfully, scrunching his nose. "I'd go for it."

Barton hunches a shoulder as he prods a few weirdly-colored eggs out of the coals of last night's fire. Ash and char sticks to the hard-cooked dribbles of egg white bubbling out from the holes punched in their tops; he flicks it away with a callused finger. "Yeah, well, if I had my bow, I'd see about making a grocery run. Since I don't, I hope you like fish."

"All right, all right, I'll put a rush on your bow," Stark says with an overdone sigh. "Along with everything else I need to put a rush on."

"I've got it," Bucky offers as he makes his way down from the heights, stepping off the ledge he'd paused on and dropping to the shelf below it, and the one below that. Banner winces a little on his behalf, but he's fine. Keyed-up from worry and lack of sleep, but fine. A drop like that is nothing.

"You've got what?" Stark asks skeptically. "The bow?"

"Bringing home the bacon. Or something, anyway," Bucky says with a shrug. "Bacon's gonna be hard to manage without any way of butchering one of those things, unless you've got something for me in your bag of tricks."

"Not much," Tony says grimly, but he hauls his pack over anyway. "I've got something that'll do as an axe, but you're going to want to be careful with it. It'll probably break at the worst possible moment, so make it count. I'll see if I can come up with something better in the meantime."

"Got it," Bucky says, looking around for Steve. Last thing he wants is Steve thinking he's going to be there if he's not. Steve tends to just _expect_ Bucky at his six, and then he forgets to watch his back.

Barton glances up from poking the fire back to life. "You want breakfast first, or are you heading out now?"

This is why he likes Barton. There's nothing but polite interest on his face--no protest, no lecture--though the question he's really asking is one Steve would give him hell for. Bucky can go a long time on short rations without compromising his mission readiness, and eggs and berries aren't going to feed seven people for long.

"Maybe later," he says, lifting a hand as he spots Steve by the eastern entrance. "Thanks for the axe," he adds as he's jerking his chin to the west, shaking his head as Steve's brows arch a question.

"No problem," Stark says shortly. That's worth a wary glance, but Stark's banked anger doesn't look like it's being focused on Bucky, so it's maybe a problem for another time.

There's no sense in hanging around, so Bucky grabs his empty pack and slips out into the trees, following the twists and turns of rock that hem in their camp until he steps out into the forest proper. Once he's out of sight, he stuffs the axe into his pack. No offense to Stark--he's frankly impressed the guy managed this much in one night--but he doubts it'll do him much good in a fight.

Outside the valley, sounds sharpen: the hiss and hum of the ocean; the rustle of leaves and the chatter of monkeys, birds, strange insects; the burble of the slow-moving river tumbling over a spill of rock on its way to the ocean. It's familiar but not. The ocean in his memory comes with the clamor of carnival rides, and though his missions have taken him all over the world, his mind wants to pair the cover of trees with fogged breath and snow.

He shakes it off. Memory's one of the few valuable things he has left, but the present's what's going to kill him if he doesn't pay attention.

The T-Rex from the day before is gone. It'd be hilarious if the turtle won that battle, but he doesn't see it either. With any luck it made it down to the water and swam away.

The trikes they spotted the previous day are still around, but he's not crazy enough to take on something that big with nothing but a stone axe held together by vines and a prayer. He doesn't want to make a kill that close to their base, either; something's bound to smell the blood and come looking for dessert.

To the west the trees thin out along a shallow canyon, but to the southwest the forest picks back up again. He heads that way at a steady jog, keeping an eye out for predators and hoping he'll recognize one when he sees it. Most of what he knows about dinosaurs comes from the movies; what little he remembers of paleontology from before the war was mostly guesswork.

It's been less than a day, and already he recognizes the bubbly chirp of dodos as they waddle about their business. They don't seem concerned at all about what might hear them, even though their stubby legs are next to useless. It'd be easy enough to just walk up and wring one's neck, but his gut twists with guilt at the thought. Even in his day, dodos had practically been the poster children for bullshit extinction. He's not going to let that stop him if it comes to it, but he'd feel like a louse for hunting them if he doesn't have to.

He spots other dinos the longer he walks, but considering that the game around here isn't exactly small, he's mostly just weighing his options. The plodding little guys with the hard, bony skulls look like they'd be a pain to take down without better weapons, and they're too slow to rush into a trap. There's a littler, skinnier type with a bony comb like a prehistoric rooster, but they're twitchy as hell, fleeing with a shriek at the first sign of movement. They're fast, but maybe not quite fast enough; he's pretty fast himself these days.

Stooping to grab a good-sized rock is what saves him from the splash of dark spittle that shoots over his head. Jerking upright, he whips around, draws back his right arm with the rock clenched tightly in his fist, and nearly freezes, because holy shit, he knows this movie.

The dilosophorofo--fuck it--the _dilo_ still has its neck ruff puffed out, mouth open wide to show off a million sharp teeth. It snarls when it sees it's missed, rearing its head back to gather spit--venom?--for another go. Bucky lets fly with his rock before it can spit at him a second time, torqueing his body into the throw, and pegs it right between the eyes. There's a sickening crack as stone meets bone, pulping its skull as its head snaps back. The dilo drops like a sack of bricks.

Bucky stares--seriously, he'd thought that was just a _movie_ \--until the sound of charging footsteps shakes him back to the present.

Spinning around again, he catches a fast impression of too many teeth coming way too close way too fast, and with both hands empty, he falls back on instinct and balls up his fist. The left one.

He's not expecting it to work. He's definitely not expecting to look down and realize he's punched out a raptor. He's pretty sure that's what it is, anyway; it's bigger than the ones in the movie, definitely more brightly-colored, with a crest of long feathers that extends nearly the length of its spine. There are more feathers down the backs of its forearms and fluffing out into a rudder-like tuft at the end of its tail, but feathers or not, it's got the wicked claws he remembers from the film on the big toes of its oversized feet.

Not that he's ever thought about it much, but if he had, he would've expected most dinosaurs to be brown or green, maybe sort of grey. Normal reptile colors. The raptor is a dark pumpkin with faded black stripes across its back; paired with the feathers, the color almost makes it look...dainty.

Which is a damn lie; it should have chewed him up and used his arm for a toothpick. Question is, why hadn't it?

There's a nasty cut on its face, probably from his knuckles, but that's not all. Its neck and sides are scored by ragged gashes that have only just scabbed closed, and the two puncture wounds near its shoulders look like they were made by teeth, big ones. Whatever it tangled with, it clearly came out the worst in the fight. Likely the only reason it had attacked him at all was because either he or the dead dilo had looked like an easy meal.

Shifting back on his heels, Bucky glances over his shoulder at the dilo and then back at the raptor. The dilo's only about the size of a large goat; he could throw it over his shoulder easily. On the other hand, it may be poisonous. The raptor, though...it's probably safe enough to eat, and if he butchers it here, is careful about getting it back to camp, that's meat for days.

He looks at the dilo. Back at the raptor. Its labored breathing rasps softly into the mulch its muzzle is buried in. As scary as it had looked before, it looks sort of pitiful now. Torn up. Helpless.

Bucky clenches his jaw and unslings his pack, pulling out the axe. It's not much to look at, but the edge is sharp. It should get the job done.

He doesn't turn his back on the raptor once as he kneels to field dress the dilo.

Far sooner than he would like, the raptor's head snaps up. Dark orange eyes fix on him instantly, pupils narrowing to fine slits. Bucky stares back, coiled to spring in any direction that gets him out of the way of those teeth. He's hoping the thing will run; he might not get so lucky a second time.

The raptor heaves itself up all at once but staggers on its feet. It watches him with its head ducked, shoulders bunched. It starts to back away but hesitates with a shiver. It's got to be starving, he realizes; it probably wants to fight him for the carcass but doesn't quite trust its chances.

He knows exactly what Steve will say if he gets caught feeding strays again, but his hands move without any orders from his brain, tearing loose a mostly-dismembered dilo haunch and tossing it at the raptor's feet.

It freezes, blinks at him once, then snaps up the still-bleeding hindquarter with rattlesnake quickness, bolting into the trees. It's gone in seconds, vanishing faster than anything that brightly-colored should be capable of.

Bucky shakes his head at himself and goes back to hacking at the dilo. There's no way that little gesture isn't going to come back to bite him in the ass, probably literally, but he's stupidly cheered just knowing it's something _he_ would have done. Before. If there'd been raptors in New York, anyway.

Doesn't change the fact that handing out a big chunk of meat like that means he needs to keep hunting. Steve eats a _lot_ , and Thor's nearly as bad. At least he knows he's still got a decent pitching arm; maybe he'll rig some kind of slingshot for next time.

The next dilo goes down easier than the first, but with the first one hunting alone, he's not expecting this one to have a mate. It comes out of nowhere, puffing itself up and flaring out its frill while he's crouched down over the first, trying to decide on a better place to start cutting. Before it can spit at him, something in the bushes lets out an unholy shriek, lunging forward with its head down and teeth bared.

It's the raptor he clocked earlier, and fuck, it must be half-crazy with pain or hunger to be throwing itself at prey the way it is. The dilo pivots, spits, and catches the raptor square in the face; it squeals but still tries to bite, even half-blinded by the dilo's sticky venom.

Knowing he's not going to get a better opportunity, Bucky goes for the dilo while its back is turned, clamping his left hand down on its skull and swinging the axe at its neck. It's not a good angle and he can't make a clean cut, but the force of the blow crushes the thing's throat, and when he drives his knee down between its shoulders, he gets just enough leverage to break its neck.

Not five feet away, the raptor shakes its head furiously, clawing at its face, but when it blinks away the worst of the dilo's dark spittle, it doesn't attack. It just stands there, staring at him, panting open-mouthed. He knows with cats that's a sign of fear or pain, but he has no idea what it means when it's a dinosaur.

Bucky gets up cautiously and waits, but their weird standoff doesn't break. What the hell. It's not like he needs three dilos.

"Guess this one's yours," he says, nudging the one he just killed with a bare foot before stepping back. He's only just out of the way when the raptor dives in, but this time it doesn't drag the carcass off. It digs in right there, stripping flesh from bone with a speed that's both impressive and very, very worrisome. If that thing decides to eat him, the only thing anyone's going to find is the arm.

By the time it's crunching through the bones, Bucky's scooped out the innards of the first dilo and found sturdy enough strips of some fibrous, viney plant to lash the thing's legs together. He can finish the job back at camp; the forest is getting a little too crowded for his tastes with no armor between him and a million sharp teeth.

"Help yourself," he says to the raptor as he backs away from the pile of offal. "Hope that'll keep you busy for a bit."

It doesn't. The moment he's clear, the raptor darts forward and gobbles that up as well, tossing its head up in short jerks to sling its food down into its gullet. When it's done, it licks its chops with a slender pink tongue, watching him intently the entire time.

"Shit," Bucky mutters, taking a slow step back. The raptor cocks its head, considering. He takes another step, then another.

The raptor closes that gap in a stride and a half but comes no closer. It stands and waits.

He tries again, and again the raptor follows him. Its posture is oddly relaxed, not canted forward like it's poised on the verge of pouncing, but it's a goddamn raptor, not a stray cat. It doesn't make any sense.

By the time he's led it halfway down to the beach, he's given up. He turns his back on the thing, and though he hears it hesitate for half a stride, in the end it just trails after him, light-footed but still too big to travel silently. After a while, it starts making an odd sort of chuckling croon deep in its chest. He has no idea whether that's a sound of pain or not, but he casts a few anxious glances over his shoulder and catches it rubbing miserably at its face with its forepaws.

"I'm an idiot," he grumbles as he leads it to the opening in the rocks shielding their camp from view. "A first-class fucking chump."

The raptor doesn't exactly offer up a second opinion, just watches curiously as he breaks off a few spills of hanging moss on the way.

As he steps out into the open, Bucky has a moment to appreciate the quiet relief of seeing the others all gathered together and safe before all hell breaks loose.

Steve notices him first, bolting to his feet and spilling into the grass some project Stark must have commandeered his stronger hands for. "Buck!" he shouts, reaching for a shield that isn't there as the others fan out in a wary half-circle.

At his back, the raptor hisses a warning and drops into a crouch.

"Hey," Bucky says sharply, "cool it, all of you! And that goes for you, too," he adds, reaching over and back to lay a hand over the raptor's narrow muzzle, pushing firmly until she's forced to tuck her chin. It's a stupid way to lose the other arm, but she only glares at the others intently, her steady--contented?--drone falling ominously silent.

"Barnes," Stark says flatly, face a few shades paler than normal. He's already working on a crop of stubble, and Bucky finds himself wondering how long it's going to take before a razor makes its way onto the drawing board. "Tell me that's not what I think it is."

"Uh, she's a velociraptor. I think."

"Utahraptor," Banner says faintly.

Barton's voice climbs half an octave as he demands, "She?"

"Eh. She looks like a she," Bucky says, hunching a shoulder. The raptor takes a step back, ducking out from under his hand and shaking herself all over like a bird ruffling its feathers. She holds her head high, haughty as a princess, her tail flicking with an edge of irritation. "And anyway, she's a dinosaur. Does it really matter?"

The others don't have an answer for him, so he'll take silence as agreement.

He drops his kills off by the campfire but keeps hold of the moss. "C'mon, girl," he says when the raptor pauses, eyes jumping from the carcasses to him in patent confusion. It's entirely possible she's still hungry, but he's disgusting and she's injured, and they both need a bath, if only to keep the rest of the forest from smelling them a mile off. "Let's get cleaned up."

He takes her down to the ocean. Saltwater's supposed to be a good antiseptic, isn't it? And he doesn't want to contaminate their closest water source with blood and guts and dilo venom. The raptor watches him curiously as he dunks himself under and splashes quickly off, but he can't convince her to wade in more than a few feet. As he sluices her off with handfuls of water, she stands perfectly still, turning her head to watch as he scrubs at her hide with the dampened moss.

At first he thinks he's just imagining things. Maybe the scabbed cuts he'd seen before had looked worse than they were, or the scabs had been ready to fall off on their own. When he examines her face and can barely see the faint line of scarring from where his knuckles had caught her, he knows it's something else.

His first impulse is to yell for Steve. His second is to yell for Banner, only without a lab to work with, he's not sure what good that's going to do. He nearly jumps ahead of himself and yells for Stark, but there's pesky things like weapons and shelter to deal with before letting Stark get caught up in a challenge. It's just that he's never seen anything heal so fast before, not even a supersoldier, and that...that worries him.

Deciding he's not going to start scrubbing again anytime soon, the raptor ducks her head and starts preening her arm feathers, ignoring him utterly. She's a pretty thing without all the blood, all muscle and claws, too sleek to have been on short rations for long. He can't quite figure out why she's still hanging around if she's not going to attack, but he figures she'll get bored and wander off any moment now.

When he splashes out of the water and starts for the trees, she follows him.

Slowing in confusion, he turns back to meet her expectant stare. "Uh. Don't you have raptor things to do?" he asks. He feels kind of stupid talking to a dinosaur, but hey, he's talking to a _dinosaur_. The sheer amazement of that outweighs any embarrassment.

The raptor cocks her head. She makes that weird, rattling warble deep in her chest at him. He doesn't have a clue what it means, but it's not an angry shriek or a hunting silence, so he guesses it must be something good. Maybe that's how raptors purr.

A huffed laugh, mostly breath, escapes before he can swallow it. Right. _Purring_. Maybe he should've let Steve buy him that dog after all. Clearly he's pet-starved or something.

"You sticking around?" he asks, cocking his head in mimicry of her. She blinks at that and tilts her head the other way. He has to cage a grin, not certain what she'll make of a sudden baring of teeth. "You gotta be good and not eat anyone, then. Even if Stark's probably gonna deserve it if we don't find him some coffee." He's partial to the brew himself--it's miles better than what they had back in the day--but he drinks it for the taste. Stark drinks it for the caffeine, and Bucky's heard just enough moaning on the subject to realize the next week or so isn't going to be pleasant for anyone.

The raptor listens attentively until he stops talking, then goes back to preening her claws. She's fastidious as a cat, a real proper lady.

He could try to shoo her off, but he lets her follow him back to camp instead. It's probably for the best; he needs to show the others what he's found, assuming she'll let them get close enough to see.

"And you're sure that was a new cut?" Banner asks, cautiously leaning in as he peers over and then through his glasses. He'd found them in his pack earlier, which suggests their kidnappers have at least some notion of basic necessities. Clint's still got his hearing aids, too; maybe glasses count as a reasonable prosthetic. Or maybe they just hadn't wanted the game to be over in Banner's case too quickly.

The raptor peers down her nose, eyes narrowed, but doesn't take a bite out of anyone. It probably helps that Banner doesn't try to touch her. After the way she'd hissed at Barton, no one else wants to take that chance.

"Pretty sure I'm the one that gave it to her," Bucky says with a shrug. He feels a bit bad about it now, even though he knows she'd have killed him on the spot given half a chance. "She had a couple of holes in her shoulder too, and a bunch of cuts like she'd tangled with a Rex or something. Now there's barely a mark on her."

"But she was ravenously hungry for a while?"

Bucky nods. "If she's anything like me or Steve, healing's hungry work."

"With a heightened metabolism, that's understandable." Banner straightens with a sigh.

"Wait," Stark says. "So super dinosaurs aren't just metaphoric anymore?"

"I honestly couldn't say," Banner admits. "If they were all recent transplants, it's possible the dinosaurs were given something with similar effects to the supersoldier serum. But with a population seeded on this scale, it's more likely they were bred for it."

"Bred," Natasha says flatly.

Bucky's stomach drops then curls itself into a knot. He hasn't been thinking much further than finding a way back home and hopefully busting some heads on the way; he just can't think of any situation this weird as permanent. But what Natasha's suggesting--only definitely _not_ suggesting--is something that would never have occurred to him. He'd like to think it's because he's a decent human being and not just because he knows more about her than he should, but he'd _like_ to think a lot of things.

"Wait, what?" bursts out of Stark like he just can't help himself. "That's--no. Are they _aliens_?"

Bucky sort of wants to clobber him, but that's Barton's job if Natasha doesn't feel like making the effort, and Bucky feels weird enough around Barton as it is. Every time they get together, Bucky finds himself battling the urge to apologize, because if anyone had turned Steve into what he'd helped make of Natalia, he'd want an apology too.

He gave it, sure, and Barton swears they're good, but _still_.

Banner clears his throat, pulling off his glasses like he means to clean them until he remembers he's not wearing a shirt. "It does betray a certain ignorance of human biology and social constructs," he says carefully, and Bucky just knows. Knows that Banner knows, which can only be because Natasha told him. Those assholes with the Red Room were sick fucks--he's not even sure of his own ability to sire kids, if it comes to it--and he remembers Natasha had taken it harder than most. He thinks he remembers killing a doctor or two just for her, or maybe just to make himself feel better. It's the last memory of the Red Room he has.

"No, but seriously," Stark insists, like he's been personally insulted by the entire situation. "Have they been watching bullshit disaster movies? To repopulate a world, you'd need like...a hundred and sixty people. Seventy at _minimum_ , if you get lucky. Anything less, and you're just grasping at straws to stave off the inevitable. I mean, no offense," he adds, half-turning to meet Natasha's eyes directly. "Any planet you repopulated would be both beautiful and deadly, but if that's what we're here for, our kidnappers are morons."

Natasha's smile is tight but not unhappy. "No offense taken," she says, smile widening as Stark's shoulders slump in relief.

"Oh, thank God."

"Wait. Go back," Steve says impatiently, shaking his head. "Why would anyone want dinosaurs with enhanced healing? I get that someone might try to use them as weapons, but why do that to an animal if you could use it on a person?"

"It could be _because_ they're dinosaurs," Bruce points out. "They've already died out once; maybe someone wants to make sure it doesn't happen again. And I think you're underestimating the effectiveness of animals in combat. There's a reason we have police dogs, and it's not just for their noses."

Bucky frowns, not liking the sound of that at all. He gets it--hell, the only reason that last dilo hadn't gotten the drop on him was because his girl here had drawn its fire--but he doesn't _like_ it.

He reaches out to pet her nose, and she allows it with good grace, molten eyes watching him attentively.

"Uh...you sure you want to get that close to that thing's teeth?" Stark asks.

Bucky snorts. "If she was gonna eat me, she'd have done it already. She's a sweetheart. Aren't you, Lady?"

Lady nudges stealthily into his hand. The new skin of the healed cut across her muzzle probably itches; he rubs the pad of his thumb across the thin line of the scar.

"Jeez, Rogers," Stark groans. "When you said he flirted with every female he met, I didn't think you meant litera--ow!"

"Owe you one," Bucky says without glancing over.

"No problem," Steve replies with an embarrassed cough, and yeah, he owes Steve for that one, too.

Bucky grins, keeping his lips pressed firmly together.

One by one, everyone but Natasha edges nervously away.

The rest of the day is fairly quiet. He takes Lady out again after the noonday heat has passed and watches her run down one of the little screechy dinos like it's nothing. She's deadly fast, and there's something cathartic about watching her rip her prey to shreds. He may be soft-skinned and blunt-toothed himself, but she certainly isn't; it makes him feel like maybe they've got a fighting chance at getting back home with a natural arsenal like that on their side. Assuming she sticks around, of course.

The next screechy dino she brings down gets brought back to him in Lady's teeth, like a dog fetching a stick. The little guy has an egg held fast in its claws that it's not letting go of even in death. "Oviraptor," Banner tells him when he brings it--and the egg--back to camp. At least food's not going to be a problem.

He's got some vague notion that night patrol with a raptor in tow should be a piece of cake, but then Clint gets up with a bright smile and says, "I call first watch. Who's after me?"

"I am," Natasha says in a voice that brooks no argument, so smoothly on the heels of Clint's offer, it's like they planned it. "Steve, you can take final watch."

"Fine by me," Steve says, not looking over at Bucky once.

"Fine," Bucky mutters. "Take all my fun."

If they're not going to let him stand a watch, then whatever. He'll just sleep.

Stark's managed to throw together a couple of half-finished lean-tos during the day, but Bucky finds a patch of grass near the cliffs, far from any of the exits, and curls up on his left side with his metal arm for a pillow. It may not be the softest place to rest his head, but at least it never gets tired.

Lady follows, hovering beside him like she means to stand guard. It's surprisingly easy to relax into her presence, and he has to wonder if this is another thing he doesn't want to look at too closely. He's not sure whether the others have caught on, hasn't wanted to ask, but Stark's initial horror over the implant, how it hadn't come alive until he'd triggered the right _thoughts_ \--yeah, Bucky gets that. He's with Stark one hundred percent.

So if the people who left them here _want_ them to make nice with the dinosaurs, if his stupid, senseless liking for something that could eat him alive is being _encouraged_ somehow....

Bucky stares out into the darkness for a long time, but when Lady sighs, folds herself down right beside him, and rests her head on his shoulder, he doesn't shove her away. She's surprisingly warm, something to do with being an ancestor of birds, according to Banner, and he's been finding out lately just how much he likes having something alive right there with him when he sleeps. It's miles better than cryo, even when his personal space heater is a dinosaur.

He's mostly out when a pair of familiar footsteps approach, rustling quietly through the grass. "Aw, jeez, Bu--"

Lady doesn't even lift her head, but her soft, dangerous hiss halts Steve in his tracks.

"Mmph," Bucky manages, twisting his right arm awkwardly around to pat Lady's nose. He has the dim idea that he'd better nip that in the bud, remembers all too well Maisy Cogburn's jealous asshole of a cat, how it was better than a chaperone, because she insisted on shutting the demon beast up in the bedroom whenever a boy she stepped out with got invited to step inside. He's not too worried, because everything likes Steve, even Maisy's devil cat.

Of course, Maisy's cat never ate anybody, but Lady's a dinosaur. It's not like they get jealous of their people, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's what I meant about the spirit of the law. Technically this sort of works, sort of like with Einstein--the dino gets knocked out (although you can't actually trick a dodo into eating narcoberries, but hey), then it gets fed. But do not try this at home. You are not Bucky Barnes. XD
> 
> I do have to mention that this is pretty much exactly how I got my first raptor in my first playthrough. A dilo nearly killed me, and while I was still recovering from the blind effect, a raptor popped out of nowhere. I panicked all over the place, went to trade my axe for my spear, managed to unequip it, and just started punching. When my vision cleared, I had a raptor lying at my feet...and she was still alive! :D I fed her the dilo. It was fate.


	4. Pack Mechanics

Swiftkeen is furious. Furious and in pain, which only makes her angrier. Tuskerbellies may be good eating, but even the fattest isn't worth _all this_ \--the pack decimated, her own hide scored by tooth and claw, all because some idiot male with more stomach than sense pounced without looking and sharped his talons on a sleeping Gianttooth instead. The others had thrown themselves on the monster valiantly, knowing all too well that there was no escape but victory, but once its eyes flared with that unholy light, there was nothing to do but run. She'd only escaped herself because the thing was too busy devouring her pack to care about one lone Ripper.

Now she's alone, and for the first time in a long time, she knows true fear. A Ripper pack can take down nearly any prey with great enough numbers on their side, but a lone Ripper has only her own wits and teeth to rely on. She's injured as well, badly enough that she's still bleeding, hunger a gnawing snake in her gut. She needs food if she's going to heal, but there's no pack to help her with larger game, the kind with the best sort of meat. She'll have to make do with Spitters and Egg Stealers and hope she doesn't fall prey to anything else in the meantime.

She almost can't believe her luck when she watches a Spitter get its head bashed in right in front of her, and by one of the strange, soft-skinned creatures that appear from time to time, at that. The Spitter isn't going anywhere, but soft-skins are good eating, or so she's heard. This one will fill her belly nicely.

It hears her coming, turns with wide eyes and an open mouth displaying blunt, pathetic teeth. It takes a step back, bringing its long arms up and curling its clawless paws into two little bunches. One paw glints and shines like veined mountain rock.

When it moves, it moves fast, swinging its shiny paw at her face like a Clubtail taking exception to a rock in its path, and it hits her almost as har--

***

She wakes in a strange position, not curled up neatly with her legs tucked under her but stretched out on her side. Startled, she jerks her head up, vision swimming even as she meets the eyes of the soft-skin she'd meant to kill.

As she surges to her feet and waits for the ground to stop roiling beneath her, it watches her warily but doesn't try to run. Her head hurts now, and her face hurts, and she's even hungrier than before. The soft-skin is right there, but its paws are stronger than she'd realized, and it's been doing something to the Spitter carcass while she was senseless. Eating it, probably; it will be even stronger now.

She should flee, but another fight on an empty belly will probably kill her, and she desperately does not want to die.

When the soft-skin throws a Spitter haunch right at her feet, she can't even move for the shock of it. Sharing a kill...that's pack behavior, but this is most emphatically _not pack_.

No matter. That's food, and she's starving. Snatching it up, she bolts away before the soft-skin can change its mind, only slowing when she can no longer see it. The Spitter haunch is barely enough to still the rumble in her belly, but with food comes healing, and with healing, clearer thought.

There have been other soft-skins on the island before. They're mostly very stupid, getting eaten or crushed or trampled, drowning or falling off mountains. Sometimes they form packs with the other tribes: Spitters and Flatmouths and Tuskerbellies, mostly, and the stupid noisy birds that get everywhere. She wonders if this one thinks it's a Ripper. At least it's clever enough to be choosy.

She means to turn aside and head for shore, eat every stupid bird she finds until her sides groan with fullness and her poor, battered hide stops pulling with every stride. Instead she finds herself stalking the soft-skin, curious to see what it will do next. Only until it does something stupid, of course. The instant it slips, she'll eat it.

When it hurls its next rock--could it be kin to the thick-furred beasts downriver?--she watches with reluctant admiration as it fells its second Spitter. It's a decent hunter, even with no claws or teeth to speak of. It might even last a week before it eats something foolish or pokes at a Treebiter's dam.

She blames hunger for not noticing the Spitter has a mate. Crouched over its kill, the soft-skin doesn't see the flare of the Spitter's frill until it's too late. Its shiny paw can't help it now, and she doesn't stop to think--she shrieks a challenge too soon, giving the Spitter ample time to turn around and distracting it from its prey.

She's no stranger to the sting of Spitter venom, but it's agony in her open wounds. She tries to bite anyway, even though she can barely see--misses and braces for the rake of talons or teeth--but there's a shadowy flash of motion and then...nothing. She hears a strangled gurgle, a sharp crack, and the harsh exhale of her soft-skin, still alive.

It's standing over a fresh corpse when her vision clears, the Spitter's head lolling at an unnatural angle. Her soft-skin nudges the body with one of its tiny little feet and makes soothing noises at her. It steps back and waits.

She's far too hungry to care about the niceties of pack or not-pack, and her confused little soft-skin is trying _so hard_ to be a good Ripper. She tears into the kill--their kill?--with ravenous speed, her battered body finally beginning to knit itself back together. She has little attention to spare for anything else as she eats, but as she's cracking the last of the bones, she notices her soft-skin pushing the still-warm innards of its own kill toward her like an offering.

It's...not the worst idea she's ever had, following her soft-skin as it begins to back away. A lone Ripper is one step up from prey, but if she joins another pack, she'll have to abide by the whims of another matriarch. She'd rather make a new pack, one smarter and stronger than the last, with males who know better than to rush into fights they can't win. If she stays with her soft-skin in the meantime, where's the harm? It has excellent manners, hunts well, understands the importance of taking care of pack before stuffing its own belly.

She's never hunted this close to the cold lands before, and the sheltered valley her soft-skin leads her to is a pleasant surprise. The path leading to it is too narrow for most hunters' tastes: a Rammer might wander in to investigate, but a Bigtooth would balk at the close confines, and a Gianttooth wouldn't _fit._ It's just right for a Ripper, and she resolves to remember this place for when she rebuilds her pack.

She isn't particularly startled to realize her soft-skin has a pack of its own--or so she thinks until they jump up with strident squawks, posturing aggression. Maybe they _aren't_ pack--maybe she and her soft-skin are equally alone. She snarls a warning, waiting to see which way her soft-skin will jump, whether it's here to challenge an alpha or to force its way into a new pack, but then her soft-skin barks something that stills the others in their tracks.

Her soft-skin puts a paw on her muzzle, and she blinks at the audacity. It's not a bite--its tiny little mouth could never manage that--but that unthinking show of dominance and the way the soft-skin pack defers when growled at tells her she's fallen in with the soft-skins' alpha.

She ducks out of its hold, shaking herself all over. She's not sure how she feels about being claimed by a soft-skin, but she understands the importance of putting on a display. She lifts her head high, arching her neck, daring the others to underestimate them.

They keep their distance. Good.

The pack is a motley lot, all shapes and sizes. Two of the others have long manes like her own soft-skin's, but while their manes are more brightly-colored, hers is the only one with a shiny arm. As brightly-colored as they are, the three should be the males of the pack, only the red one smells just subtly different from all the rest, and the gold-maned one looks like a soft-skin but smells like something else entirely. Maybe his mother laid him in the wrong nest and now they think he's one of them. She'll keep an eye on him, just in case.

When her soft-skin starts moving again, she follows, ignoring the stares of the others. She's puzzled when he drops his kills by a pile of wood that's somehow caught fire and starts to walk away without eating. Do they have hatchlings to feed? Why leave the job half-done if that's the case?

Her soft-skin rumbles soothingly at her, relaxed again with his pack behaving. The cant of his body is expectant. She should probably pay closer attention to the noises he makes; he's clearly more intelligent than the tribes give his kind credit for.

Following him down to the ocean, she watches curiously as her soft-skin dips himself in the water and flails around for a bit, sluicing off the blood of his kills. He smells much better afterwards, but his scent is so unusual, it draws more attention to itself than perhaps it should. She can't imagine why he wants to swim in Toothfin-infested waters when there's a perfectly good lake back in the valley, but soft-skins are unpredictable. Persuasive, too.

She has no idea how he manages to talk her into walking out into the water, but as he scrubs away the itchy scabs of her last battle and burnishes her hide to a shine, she relaxes into his grooming with a sigh.

Clearly she made the right choice in following this one home. It's only temporary, though. Of course.

Which is why she hisses at the biggest of the maybe-females when it sidles up to nest with them that night. Pack is pack, but that one is not _her_ pack.

Her soft-skin covers her face with an arm like he thinks it's a wing.

She croons deep in her chest, charmed despite herself. She's heard plenty of stories about the stupidity of soft-skins, but no one ever told her they're _adorable_.

"Mine," she rumbles, nudging into his paw.

The big one eyes her, mournful and wary, almost like it understood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...it makes no sense for the different dinosaurs to call themselves by human classifications. Hopefully their own names for themselves and their "tribes" make sense, but I can provide a translation if it becomes an issue!


	5. Drop

The thing is, Afghanistan wasn't the only time Tony's found himself stranded in the middle of nowhere, far from anything like the comforts of home. It was just by far the worst. He knows exactly how lucky he got that Rhodey found him when he did, and being that helpless, that much at the mercy of fate and the elements, isn't an experience he's keen to repeat.

So he's done a lot of reading. The _SAS Survival Handbook_. The complete _Worst Case Scenario_ collection just for shits and giggles. More how-to books than he cares to contemplate. He even gave the Foxfire books a try before the rampant abuse of colloquialism forced him to medicate with alcohol to kill the pain. His recall may not be quite as good as a supersoldier's, but he's got a pretty good memory for anything that interests him.

What he hasn't quite counted on is that knowing and remembering what to do is only half the battle.

Swearing under his breath, Tony tries to keep a handful of dried grasses together long enough to twist and tie it together in a bundle and ends up with more of a straggly tail. Sonofabitch.

"Would another pair of hands help?" Bruce asks carefully.

"I've got it," Tony mutters. It's a pride thing now. He's not going to be defeated by _grass_. "It's not like I haven't seen it done."

"Really?" Bruce rocks back on his heels, brows arching. "Where?"

"YouTube," Tony admits, eyes fixed on his hands. "It's definitely not as easy as that one asshole makes it look." When he gets back, he's going to track that guy down. Odds are even whether it'll be to offer him a job or to punch him in the face.

"Ah. Well. If you saw it on YouTube."

He's going to win this one. He's Iron Man, damn it. He built the suit in a cave. He once made a brand new element, for fuck's sake. He can make a thatch hut.

His only consolation is that only Bruce has stuck around to witness the struggle.

It's almost tempting to throw in the towel, go back to the rough lean-tos he constructed the day before and call it good. His hands already ache, his head is _splitting_ , and he'd cheerfully kill for a cup of coffee. It's just that he's not an idiot, and with a tropical climate comes tropical storms. He also wants a door between him and whatever nastiness might wander in, Barnes' new friend included.

Tony shakes his head. Leave it to Barnes to go for breakfast and come back with a murdersaur. He should--he _could_ really hate the guy, only that's counterproductive as hell now that he's come to grips with the fact that it was Hydra behind the wheel when Barnes killed his parents, that in some deeply horrible fashion Hydra is _still_ calling the shots in Barnes' head. Normal folks don't just assume food is for other people when faced with a possible shortage. They don't walk a ceaseless patrol until even Natasha calls bullshit. They also settle for therapy dogs, but Barnes' therapy raptor has one undeniable benefit: they're going to be very well-fed, right up until the moment it decides to eat one of them.

His next attempt at a thatch bundle looks sort of like a drunken comma. It's progress.

He's lashing poles together to make the framework for a wall, cursing steadily all the while, when Barton comes strolling back in with a spring in his step and a strange dodo tucked under one arm. This one's blue, and though its feet paddle uselessly at the air, it doesn't appear to be trying to get away. More like Clint picked it up in midstep and it hasn't quite figured out yet that it can stop walking any time now.

"Hey, check it out," Barton calls over, looking pleased with himself. "I found Einstein a boyfriend. His name's Hawking!"

Tony does a double-take, because seriously? "Huh," he says instead of giving Barton the satisfaction of hearing him point out just how wrong that is. "For a minute there I thought you were going to say 'Hawkeye'."

"It's a dodo, Stark."

Tony narrows his eyes thoughtfully, then shakes his head. "Too easy."

Barton snorts but otherwise pretends to ignore him, putting the bird down next to the other one. They blink at each other like they've never seen another dodo before, then abruptly start to coo like old friends.

"Anyway, I thought keeping our egg supply steady might be a good idea. For variety if nothing else. But, uh...looks like I didn't need to worry."

Tony glances over with a frown. He hasn't exactly been paying attention to the wildlife, but now that Barton mentions it, Einstein seems to have left a veritable trail of eggs in her wake. She's made no attempt at nesting or hiding the eggs or whatever it is dodos do, which maybe shouldn't surprise him. The sheer number of eggs he's looking at probably explains how anything that dumb has managed to survive as long as it has.

"So basically we're going to be up to our necks in dodos in no time," Tony says.

Clint hunches a shoulder. "Uh, maybe? But I guess that makes us self-sustaining, right?"

"You're asking me? You're the guy with the farm."

"Eh. That's more Laura's thing than mine," Clint admits. "So hey...how's it coming with that bow?"

"It's coming," Tony says, though that's approximately half a lie. He hasn't even started yet, but to be fair, it's not exactly going to take all day. "Actually, I'm not sure I like the wood we've got; it's not really bow material. Why don't you find me two lengths of wood about the height you want your bow to be and we'll go from there."

"Yeah, sure," Clint says easily, the tilt of his brows thoughtful. "Why two?"

"You should always make a prototype, Barton." And if his first attempt turns out anything like his thatching, having more material on hand will definitely speed up the process.

With Barton out of his hair for a few hours, Tony goes back to swearing. Also building, but mostly swearing. Bruce stages a judicious retreat to poke around in the fire pit, which--right, charcoal. Good idea. They'll want that eventually if Tony doesn't lose his mind thanks to the perfidiousness of _grass_ first.

Bruce's cautious distance has another benefit as well. The tight pounding in Tony's head has gained a dull counterpoint of nausea, his temper beginning to fray apace. It's just remotely possible Rhodey has a point about cutting back on the caffeine, but he'll be damned before he admits it. He's gone cold turkey before, just as unwillingly. He can do this. _Without_ alienating the people who are going to help him get back home.

Well. He can try, anyway.

Steve hauls back another load of wood and pauses to watch the show. Tony's tempted to tell him to draw a picture--it'll last longer--only someone's going to have to reinvent paper first.

Steve clears his throat. "Do you want me to--"

"No."

"But can I just--"

"Nope."

"But--"

"Listen, Rogers," Tony says, fiercely gratified when Steve's mouth shuts with a snap. "This is the ultimate showdown. Man versus Nature. Nature versus thousands of years of technological advancement."

"Ah," Steve says gravely.

"Writing, Cap. Cinematography. The goddamn internet, okay. YouTube has shown me the way, and I am by God going to surpass what our very distant and hairy ancestors were capable of or die trying."

"I see."

Tony narrows his eyes. Steve's are lit with mirth, the asshole. Right. He doesn't have to take this abuse.

"Shouldn't you be making sure your bestie's therapy raptor hasn't eaten him or something?"

Steve sighs, less Golden Retriever and more Basset Hound for a change. "I'm pretty sure she'll eat anything else that tries."

Tony snorts. Oh, that is too hilarious. "Are you seriously getting cockblocked by a dinosaur?"

It's all worth it just to see Cap turn American flag red and sputter like a schoolkid.

Romanoff drops in around midmorning, eyes him, eyes the single wall he's managed to cobble together, and simply asks, "More grass?"

"Yes, please."

She nods once and leaves to get right on that. This is why he loves Natasha, if by 'love' he means 'deeply fears and respects her more than any woman but Pepper'. The two of them have been getting back to what passes for normal with them in the wake of the Accords and their aftermath, wherein Natasha agreed to overlook his shitty remarks and Tony vowed never again to mess with Natasha's idea of family. He's pretty sure Rogers got strong-armed into the exact same promise, possibly literally. Natasha's fair like that.

Thor comes back with another fish. If Bruce hadn't sworn up and down that sabertoothed salmon were a thing--if it hadn't been Bruce doing the swearing--Tony would think they'd been stranded in the middle of a mad scientist's experiment, not a nature preserve.

"How are you catching those?" Tony has to ask. "Are you just wading in and wrestling them to shore?"

"My brother taught me the art of tickling," Thor says with a shrug, adding thoughtfully, "in more ways than one."

Tony stands his ground, clamps down on the preemptive shudder that wants to ripple down his spine, but Thor's eyes spark with a knowing glint that promises nothing but trouble. He keeps his paws to himself, but Tony knows he's going to have to watch his back--or rather his ribs--from now on.

Clothes. Clothes would definitely help this situation. Probably. He hopes.

It's a little past noon when he finally gets into a kind of rhythm. Planning and designing are never a problem; it's execution that sometimes sets him back when he's working on an entirely new skill set. He'd usually stop for a couple of hours, let his brain percolate on the problem while he focuses on something entirely different. This time there's nothing else to distract him, and the sense of urgency he feels won't let him just walk away. It probably sets him back more than he'd like, but he _has_ to get this done, this and so much else. He doesn't have the luxury of letting his brain run its background scripts when he needs it to be cranking out solutions _now_.

By the time the others come straggling in for an early dinner, he's got a decent foundation laid with three walls up and a roof half-completed. It's less pride than vindictive satisfaction that makes him want to show off the horror he's created, but he'd like to see anyone else top it.

"It looks very sturdy," Steve tries valiantly as they all stand around admiring the wreckage.

Tony snorts. "No it doesn't. But it'll keep the rain off until I figure out something better."

He's never been one for baseless assumptions. _Reasonable_ assumptions, yes. As the sun goes down, he claps his hands together in anticipation and asks, "So, who wants to try out the new accommodations?"

He's not expecting the blank stares he gets in return.

"I'm on first watch," Bruce explains, apologetic.

"And I'm up after him," Steve says with a shrug. "I wouldn't want to wake anyone, coming or going."

"Shouldn't you reap the benefits of your hard work?" Thor asks, so earnestly puzzled Tony knows he's run smack up against Thor's notions of How the World Works, Asgardian Edition.

When Tony takes a swift look around, he realizes Romanoff's nowhere to be seen, and Barton's already up a tree, like he means to nest up there.

"What about you, Barnes?" He's clutching at straws here, bracing for a derisive snort or a shifty-eyed look, but like Bruce, Barnes actually looks sorry for turning him down.

"Lady's still kind of iffy about the rest of you guys, so until she settles in, I was gonna...y'know...." Hunching one shoulder, he cocks a thumb at the raptor lurking by the pond.

"Wait," Tony says blankly. "You're seriously saying you'd rather sleep with the raptor than me."

Barnes' brows shoot up; Rogers makes a curious choking sound that would be deeply hilarious at any other time.

"Okay, that came out wrong. Point still stands."

Barnes huffs a laugh, mostly breath. "Yeah, well, no offense to anyone here, but right now Lady kind of smells the best of any of us."

"Soap," Tony says automatically. "Right. Adding it to the list. Unless you guys are going to have a crisis of chivalry over that as well."

"Over soap?" Barnes smirks. "Arm wrestle you for it."

Seriously, how does he keep forgetting that this is Captain Wiseass' best friend?

"Fine," he mutters. "We'll see how you feel when it starts to rain."

As if to mock him, the sky remains faultlessly clear.

Lying on his back, hands laced behind his aching head, Tony stares up into the shadows of his surprisingly-tight thatching and waits for his circling thoughts to still. It's a long wait. There's so much he needs to do, so much they still don't know. Who brought them here, and how did they arrive? Is this a test or just another attempt to get them out of the way? What's going on back in the world they left behind?

A cool breeze wafts in through the open doorway, drying the light sheen of sweat left over from his attempts to get the roof finished. He'd built his hut on the rise overlooking the pond, thinking more of the view at the time than more practical considerations, but apparently he'd chosen wisely. He'll remember that when he builds the next--

There's no warning, not even a whisper of sound, as the dark night outside lights up an eye-searing violet. Tony lunges up, half-falling through the door before he remembers he isn't wearing _pants_ , much less the suit.

Stumbling to a halt at the sharp drop-off overlooking the pond, Tony forgets about getting to cover in favor of staring up at the sky. A massive column of light spikes heavenward from the base of the ruins across the valley, and somewhere up there, tiny but getting closer, one of those diamond-shaped pods is slowly lowering down. He peels his eyes away reluctantly, spots Cap and Barnes and Thor edging closer to the landing point while Romanoff and Barton hang cautiously back. He doesn't see Bruce anywhere but imagines him scrambling down from the heights to join them, just in case the Hulk is needed.

It galls him that he's reduced to sitting and waiting, that he's going to be next to useless if this pod is bringing a fight with it. He doesn't even have _animal friends_ to fall back on, although...now that he's thinking about it, Barnes' therapy raptor looks one part curious and three parts bored, and the dodos are ignoring the light show entirely. Granted, they're dodos, but the raptor seems mostly puzzled over _them_.

The wait for the pod to land feels longer than it probably is. When Tony walks down to join the others, Romanoff shifts automatically to both cover him and include him, Barton mirroring her without looking at either of them. Tony eyes the pod closely as it slowly approaches. The air buzzes loudly around it, but he still can't spot any means of propulsion: there's no jets, no repulsors, nothing. His hands itch to take it apart. If nothing else, that's a decent source of metal if he can just find some way to work it.

Thor hefts his hammer as the pod touches down, but all it does is sit there. After a moment of listening to it buzz, Cap looks at Barnes and starts forward, Barnes hot on his heels.

Tony holds his breath as Steve raps his knuckles on the pod. Nothing stirs inside, so Steve stars running his hands over the flat face of the pod, looking for a catch. He finds it with a start, or he finds _something_ , anyway. The capsule doesn't open, but one section of the pod face lights up with unfamiliar characters in an alphabet Tony doesn't recognize.

Steve frowns and presses the same spot again. The letters shift, change, spelling out new words in a new language, but the pod still doesn't open. Steve tries again. And again.

"Uh...I think we may be under-leveled for this thing," Clint says uncertainly.

The pod seems to agree with him. Its next attempt is nothing but a symbol: a circle with a slash through it.

"The hell we are," Tony snarls. He makes it half a step towards the thing before Thor strides forward, swinging up his hammer to slam it down with a grunt of effort right in the middle of that glowing red circle.

The metal crumples but doesn't quite shatter, which is impressive in and of itself. It warps enough along the seams for Rogers to hook his fingertips under the edge, and then Barnes moves in to find his own handhold. They brace themselves, Barnes looking to Rogers, who nods once. Heaving back in different directions, they rip the door right off the pod, Steve staggering back a few paces before tossing the panel aside.

The pod is brightly lit inside, with four lumpy protrusions at the base that could be meant as storage or seating. Steve pries up the top of one and finds it empty inside, though there are slots as if something's meant to be plugged in there, each with a simple pictogram stamped over it: a tooth, a taloned foot, a dinosaur arm. Something that looks like a stylized wing. A deep sea mine?

"Is...that Sauron's helmet?" Bruce asks, leaning over Tony's shoulder for a better look.

Tony cocks his head one way and then the other. "Actually...?"

The fourth compartment contains nothing but a rolled up sheet of some sturdy material, not quite paper and not quite plastic. Steve hands it to Thor, because right, AllSpeech, but Thor takes one look at it and hands it to Tony. Tony's got a bad feeling even before he accepts it, but when he holds it up--

" _Sonofa_ \--you've got to be _shitting_ me."

"What?" Steve asks, glancing at Thor and then back again. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing," Tony says, baring his teeth in a huge, fake grin. "Our alien overlords just wanted to make sure we had something to wipe our asses with."

Steve blinks, brows shooting up.

"It's a goddamn blueprint!" Tony rages, unable to contain himself a moment longer. "For a fabricator! Like we aren't stuck in the Stone Age, technologically speaking! And like I need a goddamn _blueprint_ to build a _fabricator_ ," he adds, lip curling in disgust. He's not going to think too hard on the fact that he practically asked for a fabricator less than a day ago. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out on a harsh sigh. "Right. This means war."

Before he can move on to outlining strategies, something in the pod ticks over with a faint but audible 'click'.

The destruction starts along the pod's seams, the panels falling inwards with a sharp whine as whatever holds them together disintegrates. Yanked back out of the way by a metal hand on his shoulder, Tony watches grimly as the pod collapses and gets eaten through in seconds, leaving nothing useful behind.

"Jesus," Bucky mutters as he lets Tony go. "What the hell even was that?"

"Implanted charges of some sort?" Bruce suggests with a frown. "Not thermite, though. We'd have felt the heat, and look--the grass isn't even scorched."

Tony knows exactly what it is. It's the equivalent of playground bullies chanting 'Nyah, nyah, you can't catch me.' First they wave a blueprint at him they don't think he has a chance in hell of putting into practice. Then they show him exactly far beyond him their technology really is, a reminder that even if he could get a fabricator up and running, he's competing with aliens.

Too bad for them that's something he excels at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Your Survivor Level Is Not High Enough." Ahahaha. AHAHAHAHAHA. Poor alien overlords.


	6. Beacon

There's a new creature on the beach. Magnificent Blue watches it pick through shells and stones for a while. It picks up a stone and puts it down. It picks up another, turns it over, and drops it into a sort of pouch on its back. Back pouches seem terribly inefficient. And then it peels its pouch right off.

Magnificent Blue shudders under his feathers. This must be one of the...oh, he has it, it'll come to him in a minute...something about skins? Skinless? The unpouched? It's right on the tip of his--

Magnificent Blue blinks at the world from a new height. He's flying, or--no. He's been lifted, the strange creature shifting him around to tuck him under its long, featherless wing. Its hide--no, skin--is impossibly soft.

Aha! That's it! This is a soft-skin!

Magnificent Blue puffs out his chest feathers, pleased with himself. His mother--well, he thinks she was his mother--always said he was her little genius.

He looks around curiously as the soft-skin strolls deeper into the woods. Nothing looks familiar, but that might be because he's seeing it for the first time from this height. Maybe he's just never come into the woods.

The soft-skin squawks as it brings Magnificent Blue to another soft-skin, who squawks back. The second soft-skin is making an absolute mess of an unsuspecting tuft of grass. It's a pity; that looks like good nesting material, or what used to be good nesting material.

He's set down gently at the edge of a pond, but there right in front of him--

He blinks, startled. Why--why that looks like--

"Oh!" he and his flock-sister say in unison. "You're flock!"

There's really nothing else that needs to be said. The island is full of tribes, but only the flock, uncountable and enduring, truly matters. Still, his myriad aunts and uncles raised him to mind his manners, so he shakes off his wings, fluffs his feathers a bit, and chortles contentedly as the pretty female ignores him. "I'm Magnificent Blue," he adds as his flock-sister dips her head to preen her breast feathers.

"Mottled Grey," she replies through a beakful of down. "Did you come to watch the soft-skins?"

Did he come to watch the...? "Oh!" he chirps, standing taller. "Yes! The soft-skins! I rode one here, actually," he confides with all the modesty he can muster. How many of the flock can say the same?

Mottled Grey pauses in her preening. She looks like she wants to ask if he's _sure_ about that, but that would be terribly impolite, so she doesn't. "Ah. Well. They're very nice," she says in a rush, pushing past that momentary awkwardness. He can be the bigger bird; he'll consider it forgotten. "Very confused, though. They keep bringing me food; I think they think I'm their hatchling."

He chortles again, because that's _adorable_ , and turns to take another look at the soft-skins. There's one poking around in a small depression that smells like burning, but the one that was mangling the nesting material is still mangling it.

Magnificent Blue tilts his head to the left, then the right. Then the far right. "What...exactly is it doing?" he asks at last, ashamed to admit he can't make beak or tail feathers of it.

"Ugh, it's so embarrassing," Mottled Grey grumbles, shaking herself sharply in mortification. "That's Littlest Hen. She keeps trying to build a nest, and she's _terrible_ at it, but she just keeps doing it."

Magnificent Blue blinks, turning his head nearly upside down. "That's a nest?"

"Mm. She's very determined," Mottled Grey says, in the tone of one who _will_ be fair, even if it kills them. "I almost wonder if she's trying to hint she wants it filled."

Magnificent Blue squeaks, scandalized, his feathers fluffing out all over.

Mottled Grey eyes him flatly, and for a moment he feels like a hopeless prude.

***

After hearing Mottled Grey's theory regarding Littlest Hen's compulsive nest-building, he can't look at either of them, so he notices right away when another soft-skin arrives. This one has a shiny silver wing, but Magnificent Blue barely has time to notice it before he sees what lurks at the soft-skin's back.

"Ripper!" he squawks at the top of his lungs, pivoting and bolting as fast as he can in the opposite direction, wings flapping wildly. "Ripper! Ripper! Ripper!"

Mottled Grey pecks at a pile of yellow berries left by the soft-skins and eyes him like _he's_ the crazy one.

"Ripper?" he says earnestly, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder. The Ripper's still there, keeping pace with the shiny-winged soft-skin. Her bright orange eyes track Magnificent Blue's every move. "There? Ripper? Um?"

He wants to peck Mottled Grey, shout, _"You can't have forgotten Rippers!"_ but goodness. _Rude_.

Mottled Grey sniffs. "It's always been here," she says.

Magnificent Blue watches in horror as the shiny-winged soft-skin puts his non-shiny little paw on the Ripper's neck and bats at it lightly. Bat, bat, bat. And the Ripper doesn't tear him apart.

"Soft-skins are magic," Magnificent Blue twitters in quiet awe.

Mottled Grey thinks about it a moment and bobs her head. "Probably."

***

Life with the magical soft-skins is remarkably pleasant. There's water, there's a magical Ripper that keeps the other tribes at bay, and the soft-skins bring them more food than they can eat. Magnificent Blue has to hide his head under his wing when Littlest Hen tries to coax every male and half the females into her regrettable attempt at a nest, but the other soft-skins take Littlest Hen's shameless blandishments in stride. They squabble amongst themselves a little--over roosting positions and who isn't eating enough and whether the mad silver one should be that close to the Ripper--but no worse than flock.

It's almost idyllic until the shining hive drops and the soft-skins lose their minds.

Littlest Hen comes bursting out of her strange nest, wild-eyed and jumpy, while Mad Silver leaves the dubious comforts of his two-pack Ripper nest to go hover near the bright purple light with the oversized hen he seems to favor. Splendid Gold joins them shortly while the others hang wisely back. Wisely, yes, because there's something...something he's supposed to remember about the buzzing, untasty hives. Something...yes!

"Don't stand under them!" he calls helpfully to the three, forgetting for a moment that they're not that smart.

"They can't understand you," Mottled Grey reminds him patiently.

"Ah. Yes. I just remembered that."

She looks embarrassed. He reaches over to preen the plush feathers at the base of her skull to show he doesn't mind. She meant well, after all.

Now that the soft-skins have seen what the commotion is about, he expects them to go back to their nests and their Ripper pile. Instead they wait for the hive to land, moving around it with curious intent. Maybe they haven't seen a hive for a while, long enough to have forgotten how they work. The Big One is the most insistent about it, pecking at the sides until she makes something light up. She pecks again, and the bright thing changes shape.

"What are they doing?" Magnificent Blue wonders aloud. He even glances at the Ripper, but she looks as confused as he feels, eyeing Mad Silver with puzzled consternation.

"I have no idea," Mottled Grey mutters, just as Splendid Gold strides forward and attacks the hive with the rock-and-branch thing he carries everywhere.

Magnificent Blue squawks at the noise, eyes bulging as the side of the hive crumples inward. That's not even _possible_. He's seen a Gianttooth crash into one full-tilt and gnaw on it for good measure, and the hive had emerged unscathed. And then Mad Silver and the Big One take their own turn and finish ripping it to pieces between them.

From the corner of his eye, Magnificent Blue sees the Ripper draw herself up, proprietary pride in her narrowed eyes, the satisfied tapping of her biggest talons. Of course _she'd_ be pleased by that horrifying show of strength. Magnificent Blue is just very, very grateful the soft-skins apparently don't eat flock.

Mottled Grey cocks her head. "Do you think there might be food in there?"

Magnificent Blue warbles a groan. He doesn't _care_ if there's food in there. He just wants to not get on the bad side of the soft-skins, who...really ought to...isn't there something else he should be remembering about the hives?

_"Fire!"_ he squawks when it comes to him at last, relieved when he sees Mad Silver pull Littlest Hen to safety. That was close, but even then the soft-skins don't back away. They stand around twittering at each other, flapping their wings at the grass and the sky. The red alpha's companion says something that has them all staring off dawnward, but the Big One shakes her head. Littlest Hen doesn't look happy, but Mad Silver bats at her shoulder the way he had with the Ripper. Bat, bat, bat. The Big One stands just fractionally taller, locking eyes with Littlest Hen.

Oh. Oh, dear. Flock don't squabble over mates, because flock is flock, but he's seen Treecrowns lock antlers over does, Ripper matriarchs watch delightedly as their males vie for their attentions.

Magnificent Blue looks deliberately away as Littlest Hen puffs herself up but grudgingly backs down, ruffling her nonexistent feathers.

Well. That's awkward.


	7. Stimberries

The middle watch is always the most sleepless watch, which is why Steve volunteered for it. Because he needs less sleep than the others, that is, not because he's trying to avoid Bucky's...pet? Dinosaur friend? 'Therapy raptor' just sounds weird, though he has to admit, Tony has a point.

Lady really doesn't seem to like him, but then, she doesn't seem to like anybody but Bucky. Steve would ordinarily be more sympathetic to that, except...well. Tony has a point about that, too.

Sighing faintly, Steve keeps his eyes fixed resolutely outward, resisting the urge to glance down at the base of the cliffs where Bucky and his raptor are curled up like two adorable, deadly kittens. For once Steve's hands itch for a camera rather than pencil and paper. No matter how accurately he sketches it, no one back home is going to believe any of this without proof.

He glances eastward as he begins another circuit of the heights, looking out across the ocean to an island lit near-constantly by pod beacons. If Clint's theory about the color of the lights is correct, that the colors hold some kind of clue to the contents, what's waiting across the water is probably pretty interesting stuff. Gold almost always stands for things of value, right? Red, though...that usually means danger, or maybe heat if the blue pods have something to do with cold. Or maybe he's ascribing human values to an alien coding system. They won't know until they open a few more of those things.

Clenching his jaw, he tells himself he isn't sorry to have vetoed Tony's idea to rush out and crack open every pod they can find. It's not that he's against the idea in principle; he just doesn't like that they had one dropped right on their doorstep, a pointed reminder that whoever brought them here can reach them anywhere, that the next pod might contain something much less harmless. Besides that, they're not really prepared to brave the wilderness yet, not even Bucky, although Lady does probably even the odds somewhat.

It's just that he's been trying really hard to keep things friendly between him and Tony now that they're speaking again, and he can only hope this hasn't set them back. Tony may drive him crazy at times, and he knows Tony can't fathom how he can be too reckless in Tony's opinion one moment and too cautious the next, but that doesn't mean he wants them to be enemies.

Or, as Bucky had muttered just hours before, the one good thing about getting dropped here may be that they'll _have_ to learn to compromise.

When Steve goes to wake Thor for the final watch, Lady slits her eyes open, silently baring her teeth as he creeps past. Bucky mumbles unintelligibly, tightening his fetal ball while at the same time burrowing closer to her warmth. Lady's tail curls tight around his legs. Her glittering stare asks Steve if he feels lucky.

Lowering himself resignedly into the warm hollow Thor left in the grass, Steve reminds himself it could be worse. They could have been dropped here with the Commandos, and there are only so many 'ladykiller' jokes he can be expected to take.

He's not holding out much hope for a restful nap, but he blinks and finds the sun has risen without him. Most of the others are already up, Bruce poking at a flat stone on which eggs are frying, while Tony...he's not sure what Tony's doing, but it looks like it might end in a bow for Clint. Steve wonders what Tony intends to do about arrows, then wonders if he should worry for the dodos' tail feathers. The little flying lizards that have been keeping the bug population down are too small, surely.

Steve sits up, yawns, and...stares. He's expecting to find Tony still brooding over those pods, maybe planning a solo excursion someone's going to have to volunteer to accompany him on. Volunteer _carefully_ , because if there's one thing Steve knows, it's pride. And he really wishes he could be sure it wouldn't all end in tears, because if there's one thing _Bucky_ knows, it's how to deal with the pride of idiots too stubborn for their own good, and he's unquestionably the best man for the job.

Only Tony's not brooding. Tony's _smiling_ , even humming a little under his breath.

Great. They're probably going to have to put a watch on him, or he'll be halfway to the nearest obelisk before anyone notices. All the same, something's not adding up.

"Morning," Steve greets Bruce as he wanders over to the fire pit, keeping a wary eye on Tony the whole time. "So...someone's in a good mood."

"He ate the berries," Bruce says, frowning.

"The black ones?" Don't those just put you to sleep?

"The white ones."

"Hey, Cap," Tony says with a grin as he notices Steve. His eyes are bright but focused, lack the simmering rage of the night before. "So, good news. I think I discovered aspirin. Or rediscovered it. Except that was definitely not a willow tree, or any of the other plants Bruce pulled out of his big, beautiful brain, so who knows. Anyway. Important thing: my headache is gone."

"You had a headache?" That partially explains both Tony's sparking anger last night and why he'd backed down from the fight in the first place. Steve feels like a heel for not noticing; he knows all too well what grinding pain can to do a person's mood, the way it saps your energy.

"Too much blood in my caffeine stream," Tony explains sagely. "Finding those berries was a lifesaver. I think I spotted some more just outside camp; might want to see if we can rig up some kind of hoe, do some cultivation, maybe a crop plot. Crop plots sound good," he says half to himself as he bangs the sharp edge of a rock against the already-whittled end of a split sapling. He peels off a long piece of wood to join the shavings at his feet and sights critically down what remains.

Steve looks at Bruce, who shrugs. "It could actually be a painkiller," Bruce admits.

"Or?"

"Well, it's probably not a poison. Other than that, your guess is as good as mine."

Bruce's mouth is twisted in frustration, which is never a good look on him. Steve can't decide which to prioritize: checking out Tony's miraculous berry patch or distracting Bruce before he can stress himself out.

Before he can make up his mind, the decision is taken out of his hands.

"Plant fiber," Tony says abruptly, still tapping away at the length of wood he's carving. "Got an idea for something _like_ cloth, at least until we've got enough hide to work with. See what you can find--and keep looking for that flint. There's got to be some around here somewhere."

"Will do," Steve says, trading a wry look with Bruce. He knows Tony's in good hands with Bruce there, and as for Bruce himself...well, the Hulk likes Tony well enough, seems to find his bossy mode amusing. If the two of them stay in the valley, they'll probably be all right. "Any clue where Bucky's gone off to?"

Tony grins. "Who do you think I sent for the hides?"

"Fair enough." Steve hasn't seen Lady in action yet, but he's intimately acquainted with Bucky's hunting face. The local dinosaurs don't stand a chance. "Clint?"

"Feather hunt."

Steve nods. Clint's probably got the best idea of what they're looking for. "Thor?"

"Fishing."

"And Nata--"

"I don't ask where Natasha goes," Tony huffs, shaking his head. "I just take what she brings me and find a good use for it."

That's probably for the best.

Steve hesitates, knowing he should probably leave well enough alone, but that's not something he's ever excelled at. "Look, about those pods. I'm not saying Clint's theory isn't good or that we shouldn't go after those things. It's just...in the dark and unprepared--"

"Relax, Cap," Tony says wryly. "I get it. No going off half-cocked. That's probably exactly what they want," he adds, upper lip curling. "Anyway. I'll handle the preparedness bit. You just be ready with the muscle when the time comes. And speaking of which, if you can get a few more of those pods open in the meantime, you'll be contributing valuable data to science."

"Well," Steve says in his Earnest Captain voice. "If it's for science."

Tony runs him off for that, but it's fine. They're good.

He's still going to keep as close an eye on Tony as he can, because an agreeable Tony is nearly always plotting something, but forewarned is forearmed.

***

When Steve returns to camp later that afternoon, he's dressed in a full outfit of plain white cloth that fits him suspiciously well. He almost wonders whether the pods are tailoring their contents to fit whoever opens them, replicating items on the spot like something out of Star Trek. Then again, with seven people in their camp, any item of clothing is bound to fit one of them. Most likely he just got lucky.

"No, no, no," Tony's arguing as Steve approaches, Bruce waiting patiently for Tony to finish. "I don't care what it does. That is _not flint_."

"I didn't say it was," Bruce replies mildly. "I said it was ferroceric flint."

"That!" Tony accuses, pointing first at Bruce and then at a pile of ochre rock collected between them. "Ferrocerium is man-made, damn it, not--why the hell are we finding synthetic flint in natural rock formations?"

"Because somebody put it there?"

Tony gives a wordless shout of frustration and stalks off, only to turn around before he makes it five steps. "Right. Let's grind some of this up. Wait. I need to make a mortar and pestle first, don't I?"

Tony's got the wild-eyed look that usually means he's been in his workshop too long, but Steve would have thought he'd be raging from sheer boredom by now instead. "Is something wrong with the flint?" he asks as he joins them.

"Everything's wrong with the flint," Tony says flatly, rounding on Steve at last only to visibly recoil. "What the--you're dressed. How are you dressed?"

"Well, it looks like the white-light pods are carrying basic survival gear. The two I came across had clothes in one and enough wood, thatch and fiber in the other to build another hut. Had to leave most of it behind," Steve says ruefully, shrugging out of his backpack. "No way to carry it. I brought the fiber, though, just in case."

Tony just stares. "They dropped us clothes."

Steve shrugs, holding his arms out for inspection. "Surprisingly comfortable. I mean, it's just cloth, so it's not like they're going to be much protection--"

"But why are they giving us _clothes_? Why dump us here in the first place if they're just going to turn around and shower us with care packages? It doesn't make sense!"

"You're assuming we were left here by an enemy," Bruce points out thoughtfully. "I'm not saying we weren't, but it doesn't necessarily follow that they want us dead. They could just as easily want us to lead long, comfortable lives where we'll never bother them again."

"Not liking that any better," Tony mutters through gritted teeth.

"I don't like it either," Steve admits, shaking his head. There's something a little creepy about an enemy confident enough to nanny their victims, and considering the level of technology they're dealing with, it's a little too like someone playing god. "But that's not going to stop me from taking full advantage of it. If we hit every drop we can safely reach from camp--"

"Oh, hey--you too?"

Steve's not surprised to turn and find Clint wearing an identical outfit or to find that it fits. "White pod?" he asks, just to be sure.

"Yep. I'd be creeped out that the GM got my sizes right, except somebody's already got my pants, so I'm creeped out enough as it is."

Steve's not entirely certain what a GM is, but he knows enough to sympathize.

Thor returns with another fish and the same white shorts he left in, but he doesn't seem surprised to find two of their number dressed. When he drops his pack to fish out a blueprint for a slingshot, he pulls out another pair of the same canvas-like pants, stacking a shirt, cap and a set of cloth arm wraps on top of it. The shoes he tries on briefly before pulling them right back off again, flexing his toes in the grass.

"Not the right size?" Steve asks, half-hopeful. Blind luck is one thing, but if the contents of the pods really are being catered to them individually--

Thor's grimace hovers halfway between apology and distaste. "Ah, no...they fit well enough. I simply find this heat...unpleasant."

"You mean oppressive," Tony corrects him, not unkindly.

Thor grins. "I do indeed. And as I found this pod _in_ the river...."

Tony laughs, clapping Thor on the shoulder without hesitation. The twenty-first century as a whole is weird about touching, especially men touching, Steve's found. Tony is unreservedly tactile by comparison. "Hey, you do you, buddy. It's not like you're going to offend anyone here."

Habit--instinct--makes Steve want to chide Thor for carelessness, but he bites it back before he can make a fool of himself. Thor's been a warrior for longer than there's been an America for Steve to be Captain of--much longer. And it's not like a few millimeters of not-quite-cotton will make a bit of difference in a fight. If Thor's comfortable, that's what matters; anything that makes this situation more bearable for any of them is a good thing.

He's glad he came to his senses about this, because when Natasha returns, she's only added pants and shoes to her wardrobe, her hair tied back off her neck with a strip of cloth that probably came from her missing hat. She's got a spear lashed to her bulging pack, and when she opens her pack up, the first thing she pulls out is a primitive hide sleeping bag that she tosses to Bruce. It's followed by a waterskin, an axe, a slingshot and a torch, her shirt emerging last.

She smirks a little at their stares. "Keep up, boys," she says as she rises to her feet, dusting off her hands.

Tony pounces on her haul, examining each item critically. "I can do better," he says after a moment, wandering off to do just that.

Steve tries to keep busy, like he isn't watching for Bucky's arrival, but it's hard. He knows Bucky probably won't agree, but Steve thinks the last couple of days have been good for him, at least in one small way. Bucky's been wary about letting anyone see his scars, his arm. Maybe having this proof that the people who matter most don't care will set him at ease.

He still manages to miss Bucky's arrival until he hears a low whistle from Clint, and when he turns--

Bucky doesn't fall back under their scrutiny, just stills and braces himself instead. "What?"

He looks eerily mission-ready like that, even with a raptor glaring over his shoulder: dressed from head to toe in black leather, minus his left sleeve. It takes Steve a moment to realize Bucky hasn't been kitted out in tactical gear; while the leather panels look sturdy, they've been roughly patched together, not machine-stitched, and the dye job isn't quite even throughout. It's not a uniform after all, just slightly more useful clothing.

"Did you get that from one of the white pods?" Steve has to ask.

Bucky shakes his head. "Green."

Clint's brows shoot up. "You got one of those open on your own?"

"Uh...it opened right up when I touched it. Was it not supposed to?"

"Huh," Steve says with a frown. He hadn't been able to open those either, though to be fair, he'd only come across the one. "Maybe it's all the hunting you've been doing. It almost seems like the pods are catering their contents to whoever opens them, so...if you're going to put yourself in the way of all those teeth...."

"Either that or you leveled up," Clint offers with an encouraging grin.

"Still not a game," Steve warns. No one pays him the slightest attention.

"Jesus," Tony says when he looks up at last from the bowl of rock he's been chipping away at. "How are you not dying of heatstroke?"

Bucky blinks, like the question never occurred to him. "I'm used to it...?"

There are days when Steve is very aware that he has seventy years of _not_ punching Hydra assholes in the face to make up for. This is definitely one of those days.

***

Tony finishes his mortar and pestle, starts grinding a piece of his not-flint to a fine powder, then promptly turns the task over to Bucky. "Put some elbow grease into it," he suggests with a smirk Steve's inclined to bristle at.

Bucky just snorts, one corner of his mouth tipping up in genuine amusement. Steve doesn't even pretend to understand how those two communicate, but he's pretty sure he and Tony look like sworn enemies to anyone who doesn't know them, so he lets it go.

"Oh, right. Barton!" Tony's off like a shot, Clint following bemusedly after, only to light up when he sees the bow Tony cobbled together earlier. "Now, go easy on this thing; it's not laminated in carbon like you're used to, but it should get the job done for now. I just need to make a batch of arrows to go with it."

The arrows arrive just before dinner. Tony must have had them half-completed already, only waiting on the feathers Clint brought back for the fletching. It's still impressive work. Clint fires a few practice shots before Natasha calls him over to eat, and every one strikes their mark.

"Thanks, Stark," Clint says as he throws himself down by Natasha, his shoulders loosening up for the first time since they arrived. "These are great. And hey, now I can help take some of the pressure off Barnes."

"Pressure?" A startled laugh escapes Bucky, his lopsided smile incredulous. "Hey, I'm just taking my girl for a nature walk. Hunting's a thing that just _happens_."

"Sure, whatever. I'm still going to have fun with these," Clint says with a grin. "Any requests while I'm out there?"

"Nothing you can't carry back," Natasha suggests, smirking at Clint's sheepish look. "If you leave the T-Rex alone, it'll leave you alone. Probably."

"Those are the large ones like we saw the first day, correct?" Thor asks, eyes lit in a way Steve doesn't like at all. "They seem a worthy challenge."

Bucky wrinkles his nose. "Pretty sure we've got enough beasties actively trying to kill us without looking for any that aren't."

"Not a fan of big game hunting?" Bruce asks, smiling like he's found an ally.

"Eh, you know. Sport killing's not really my thing."

"And Buck's a total softie when it comes to animals," Steve can't resist adding, grinning unrepentantly at Bucky's betrayed pout. "I thought it was bad in Brooklyn, but you should've seen him during the war--surrounded by strays, wherever we went."

Bucky huffs. "Is that any way to talk about the Howlies, Steve? Show some respect, sheesh."

Steve just laughs. They _were_ strays of a sort, all of them, Steve included. Lucky them.

"So the murdersaur there isn't a one-off?" Tony asks, popping a few berries into his mouth. The white ones again; his headache must have come back. Steve's entirely grateful caffeine does absolutely nothing for him, good or bad.

"I keep telling you, she's a sweetheart," Bucky grumbles, rolling his eyes. "You're just jealous because my girl likes me better. Isn't that right, gorgeous?" he calls over his shoulder, eyes softening the instant they land on his dinosaur.

Lady cocks her head but draws herself up proudly, preening a little under Bucky's admiring stare. If Steve ignores the teeth and the claws, she certainly is a handsome creature, and she doesn't _act_ like she's contemplating taking a bite out of Bucky the instant he gets careless. Then again, that's probably exactly what people who keep big cats say, right before their precious darlings maul them.

"That's my Lady," Bucky croons, flipping Tony off without looking when he cracks up.

Bruce tries to cage a smile. "So...why didn't you ever get a dog again?"

Bucky snorts. "Because Steve wants one."

"Ow," Steve says, bewildered and a little hurt. "You don't want me to have a dog?"

"No, moron. I don't want you to get me _your_ dog," Bucky points out with exaggerated patience. "You keep bringing it up like it's supposed to be part of my recovery, when I know for a fact that Wilson's been on you just as hard. If you want a dog, just get a dog. It's okay to do stuff for yourself too, y'know."

"Oh," Steve says, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck. He'd just thought...Bucky loved animals, and he'd always looked so happy with a dog at his heels or a cat in his lap. He'd wanted to give that to Bucky, and if he'd felt a little wistful while poking at rescue sites and therapy trainers, he'd brushed it off. He'd still be _around_ the dog, even if it wasn't his.

Bucky shakes his head with a sigh, eyes fond. "Such a martyr, Rogers."

"Takes one, Barnes," Steve shoots right back, which has Bucky rolling his eyes again.

"Anyway," Bucky shrugs, "I'm more of a cat person, myself."

"Really?" Steve murmurs, eyeing Lady sidelong. She flicks her crest at him dismissively, not even looking his way. "I wouldn't have guessed."

Tony nearly chokes on a handful of berries. It probably serves him right.

***

Just before Steve turns in--alone, because Bucky put his foot down about standing a watch, and Steve just knows Lady's going to balk about getting too close to him when they return--Tony digs two holes outside his hut, sinks a pair of what appear to be tall torch-holders into the dirt, then pours a measure of ground flint into each. When poked with a lit twig, the powder bursts into flame.

"See?" Tony crows as Bruce hides his face in his hand. "Not flint."

"I never said it was! But...that's not how ferrocerium works, either."

"Tell me about it," Tony mutters, throwing down his taper and stomping it out with particular force. "I don't care if this is a game; they could at least not fuck with _science_."

Steve frowns. "Wait. What...?"

"I'm calling it sparkpowder," Tony announces. "I mean, you guys can call it flint powder if you want. Just know that we can't be friends."

"Because that's not flint."

"Bingo! Give the man a prize."

Steve's not going to argue the point. He can tell Tony has _feelings_ about this.

"Good job on the torches," he says instead. "What made you think of using the, uh--sparkpowder, though?"

"He did science to it," Bruce calls over, exasperated.

Steve bites his lip to keep from laughing aloud. "You set it on fire to see if you could and were surprised when it worked," he translates.

Tony just shrugs, belligerently popping a few berries into his mouth. "I'm a genius. Of course it worked."

Steve doesn't argue that either. Whatever helps Tony sleep at night.

***

When Steve wakes, it's to banging. And cursing. Really an impressive amount of cursing, and he was in the army. He knows impressive when it's blistering the air.

Tony's been hard at work on the housing situation, it seems, because his thatch hut has nearly quadrupled in size overnight. Only now it seems he's tearing the foundations up and replacing them with wood.

"Has he slept at all?" Steve asks quietly as he approaches the campfire.

"I don't think so," Bruce says, nudging a few hardboiled eggs out of the coals. Dodo eggs are proportionally large, but Steve's body requires a lot of fuel. He'd feel bad about it if Einstein weren't popping out eggs nearly faster than they can eat them. "He just didn't get loud about it until dawn."

"Uh...should we be helping him?"

"Nope," Bruce says firmly. "If you wait for him to ask for help, he may actually let you help. Until then, just leave him to it."

Steve knows this. It's just hard to watch someone struggling and not step in to lend a hand.

That probably means the smartest thing he can do is leave camp for a while.

"Right. Any requests for materials while I'm out?"

"Probably more wood, the way things are going. Oh, and take a spear with you."

Steve's brows arch. "A spear?"

There are five sticking up from the dirt near the lakeside. If the one Natasha brought back is amongst their number, it's indistinguishable from the rest.

"Damn." So Tony really was up all night. "See if you can get him to rest, will you?"

Bruce sighs. "That's easier said than done, but I'll try. Probably he'll crash in a few more hours anyway; he didn't really touch breakfast."

That doesn't sound good, but there's not much Steve can do. Tony's a grown man, hasn't ever had the best relationship with sleep, as far as Steve can tell. If he wants to use work as a means to distract himself from their situation, that's his prerogative.

"So...what's the Jurassic equivalent of a turkey, anyway?"

Bruce grins. "Are you seriously suggesting drugging Tony with tryptophan?"

"That depends. Do you think it'd work?"

Bruce laughs under his breath, shaking his head. "Probably not. Anyway, watch yourself out there, because I'm pretty sure Tony didn't actually discover aspirin. I'm pretty sure he discovered caffeine."

"Oh." Crap. "And he's had how many of those berries?"

Bruce shrugs helplessly.

That's exactly what Steve's afraid of.

***

"This stuff is ridiculous," Tony says by way of hello as Steve returns. Steve glances over his shoulder just in case, but he's definitely the only one in hailing distance.

Fine, he'll bite. "What is?" he asks as he drops his pack by Tony's knee to be rooted through at Tony's convenience.

"This pant fiber." Sitting cross-legged on the ground outside his hut, which looks more like a house now, Tony glares down at the pile of half-shucked greenery in his lap, peeling open another stalk to get at the fine, white threads inside. "Do you know what I could make with this stuff? Well. This stuff in particular. That reedy crap Barton brought me is practically copyright Mead it's so obviously meant to be turned into papyrus, but this--this stuff makes a damned good thread. In fact, you're probably wearing it right now."

"The clothes we got from the drop pods?" Tony nods tightly. "Well...that's a good thing, right? At least we know we're not reliant on them."

"You don't get it, Rogers," Tony growls, glaring up at him. "We've got plants that were practically _designed_ to give us clothing and paper. We've been picking veins of synthetic flint out of chunks of normal rock, like they were designed that way too. Everything around us may be just as fake, like someone put together the perfect habitat for their pets. I don't care how convenient it is; it's bullshit."

Steve thinks about it, really thinks about it, ignoring the chill that snakes its way down his back. Tony has a point, but.... "That's good news too, though, isn't it?"

"How the hell is that good news?"

Steve shrugs. "Nobody can think of everything. If someone really did make this place, they'll have screwed up somewhere. All we have to do is find it and take advantage of it."

Tony drags both hands down his face. He looks equally annoyed and exhausted.

"Sometimes that excessive optimism really gets on my nerves," Tony grumbles.

"But right now?"

"Fine. You get a pass. This time. But don't let it go to your head."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Steve says with a grin. Reaching out with his foot, he nudges Tony gently in the thigh. "So did you get any sleep while I was gone, or what?"

Tony eyes him suspiciously. "Was that meant to be subtle? Because you're the least subtle person I know, and I'm including the Hulk in that."

"That's a no, then."

"Pfft. Sleep is for the weak. I'm not tired, anyway. Or, well, I'm tired, but I'm not sleepy. I've got a head full of ideas and not enough hours in the day, is what I'm saying. I'll sleep when my brain turns off."

"And you don't think those berries you found might have anything to do with it?"

The look Tony gives him is half-amused, half-pitying. "Uh...actually, this is me on every inventing jag I've had since I was four."

Steve rocks back on his heels, surprised. There's something shuttered in Tony's eyes, like he's expecting Steve to bring up some comparison to Howard, but that's not where Steve's mind went first at all.

"That's why you named your AI JARVIS, isn't it?" he blurts out, realizing too late the memory is probably just as painful, if for different reasons. All he can do is push on. "That man must've been a saint."

Tony barks a laugh that drains all the tension from him at once. "You have no idea. If you think I'm a handful now, you should've met me as a kid."

Steve honestly wishes he could have. He'd talked to Peggy a time or two about Tony before she'd passed--okay, he'd ranted a time or two, only to have her ask him tartly what he would have done in the same situation. And on her bad days...well, the sweet kid from her memories and the prickly, guarded man Steve knows might as well be two different people. It really makes him wonder what had brought about the change, and that just makes him wonder if there'd been anything he could have done to fix it.

He knows better than to bring any of that up, though. Instead he nods at the roof of Tony's house, asking, "Did you know you have an audience?"

Twisting around without rising, Tony glances up in surprise. "Huh. How long have they been there?"

"You're asking me?"

Three of the valley's little flying lizards perch at the roof's edge, alternating between watching Tony and grooming themselves. A fourth glides in for a landing, and the others make room, chirping amiably amongst themselves.

"Have you tried feeding them?" Steve asks, already picturing Tony with one on his shoulder.

Tony snorts. "I think they're a little old for Impression to occur," he says, turning back around and reaching for another thick stem to split open, picking out the soft inner fiber with practiced fingers. "And I don't have time to take care of a bunch of pets. I'll leave that to Barnes."

"Suit yourself," Steve says, though he personally feels Tony could use a few more pets in his life. "And lay off those berries, huh?"

"Yeah, sure," Tony says, clearly not meaning a word of it.

"Seriously, Tony. We have no idea what side effects those things are going to have."

"Just dehydration so far, but whatever."

"Tony...."

"Fine."

***

Tony does not lay off the berries. He does take the hides Clint brings back from a pod run and turns them into waterskins for everybody. "I got thirsty," he says, waving off their concern. The bags under his eyes have deepened to a reddish-purple bruise, but he's still on his feet, refusing to slow down.

Steve pulls Bruce aside, asking, "How long do we wait before we stage an intervention?"

Bruce won't meet his eyes. "Well...I may have already picked all the berries I could find in walking distance. And, uh...then I may have slipped and dumped them in the ocean."

"You're a good man, Bruce Banner," Steve declares with all the overdone righteousness he can muster.

Bruce laughs, but he still looks troubled. "A dead man, you mean, once Tony finds out. Then again, if he stops to sleep on it first, I guess it'll be worth it."

Steve really hopes so, because after the talk they had the day before, he's probably going to be the prime suspect.

***

Tony's first instinct when he realizes the bushes he's marked are stripped clean is to blame Captain Busybody. Then he notices how Bruce is carefully avoiding him and assigns blame where blame is due.

"Not cool, Science Bro," Tony stomps over to accuse, not caring if it ends in him poking a Hulk. "Not cool." He's also just going to ignore the way he's leaning distinctly sideways.

Bruce, however, is not.

"Tony, you're leaning distinctly sideways. Maybe you should sit down."

"Hmph. You mean lie down."

"That sounds like a great idea," Bruce says, low and soothing. "And didn't you tell me you were making a proper bed?"

"A simple bed," Tony corrects him, eyes narrowing as he folds his arms across his chest. "And it's done. Why?"

He wants to tell Bruce he's on to him, warn him not to try tricking him, only on further reflection, being tricked is exactly what he wants.

He lets Bruce lead him back to his crude wooden shack, even lets himself be put to bed on the pretext of modeling the new design for an audience. He closes his eyes when prompted, his mind racing so fast he's in no danger of falling asleep.

Once Bruce leaves and he can be reasonably certain he's presumed dead to the world, he rises cautiously, sneaks to the door, and takes a peek outside.

The coast is clear.

Tony books it.

Aside from sporadic forays for ingredients, Tony hasn't ventured very far past the confines of the valley. He can find his way to the river and back, knows largely which dinosaurs are safe and which he doesn't want to be spotted by, but he's not much of a woodsman. He's always just stumbled over the bushes he needs; the damn things are everywhere.

Or were, before someone decided to go all well-meaning on him.

"Not cool," he mutters again, even though there's no one to hear him. It bears repeating.

Ignoring a barren-looking gully on his right, Tony follows the course of the river and climbs a rise to slip into the woods beyond. It's cooler under the thick canopy, dark and quiet; it's probably his imagination that makes his footsteps sound so loud.

He curses under his breath when he finds the occasional stripped bush already waiting for him. Bruce has been thorough, but he's a green tea snob who dabbles in the occasional oolong; he doesn't _get it_. Caffeine is life, and if Tony doesn't get his, somebody is going to lose theirs.

He's almost forgotten to be on the lookout for dinosaurs when a voice at his back takes a year off his life.

"Uh...Stark? What are you doing here?"

Tony whips around to find Barnes watching him curiously, head tilted in unconscious mimicry of the raptor at his back. Part of him knows Barnes didn't mean anything by that; Tony hasn't shown any inclination to wander before this, unless it's straight to an obelisk or the nearest red or gold beacon. The rest of him is running on empty and furious at the prospect of being coddled.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he snaps, viciously satisfied when Barnes recoils a fraction before steeling himself. "Was I just supposed to stay back at camp where it's safe? Let you guys do all the work? Or maybe you think I'm useless without the suit, is that it? Well, news flash--I happen to be a genius! A genius engineer scientist! I can kill people with my brain, Barnes--you can't just keep me chained to the campfire, or...or whatever your notion of barefoot and pregnant is. Fuck!"

Honestly Tony has no idea what he's saying anymore. He's pretty sure he's gotten across the general idea, which is that he's pissed and not in the mood to take anybody's shit. Barnes' eyes are at least wide: awed and impressed, he's pretty sure. Probably. Maybe.

"Uh...you're already kind of barefoot, Stark," Barnes points out with an apologetic grimace, nodding at Tony's feet. "S'okay, though--I can fix that. You wanna go visit a pod? There's one just up the river; we were heading that way already."

"Upriver?"

Barnes shrugs. "Yeah. It's not far, and me and Lady've got you covered."

Tony glances at the raptor and finds her scrutinizing him closely. He's pretty sure she's sizing him up as a possible hunting partner and finding him wanting. That or she's pissed at him for yelling at her human and is plotting his demise. Either sounds equally likely.

"Yeah, fuck it," Tony says mulishly, resisting the urge to flip off the raptor. She might just bite his finger off if he tries. "Let's do it."

"That's the spirit!" Barnes says with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder and using that steady grip to turn him around. "But listen--if you really are pregnant, I sure hope you know who your baby daddy is, or the folks who dumped us here have a lot of explaining to do."

Tony chokes on air. What the actual _fuck_?

"How," he gasps past the howl of laughter that wants to escape. "How do you know that reference?"

Barnes smiles ruefully. "Hate to ruin the mystique, but Hydra techs watch a hell of a lot of crap TV."

Tony giggles, high and helpless and embarrassing as fuck. Barnes doesn't laugh at him or even seem to mind. "I caught a SHIELD agent playing Galaga on the helicarrier once," Tony confides, grinning at the memory. "Thought Hill was going to make him walk the plank."

"Hill. That's the scary one that looks like she's willing you to fuck off even when she's telling you to have a nice day?"

"Yep. That's the one," Tony says, rolling with it as Barnes steers him around the remains of something's nest, a pile of dry twigs and leaves all but lost in the undergrowth. "I like to turn her loose on asshole reporters and other people's lawyers. It's like cage fighting, only Pepper gets mad if I place bets."

"And Hill doesn't?"

"Only if I bet against her."

Tony's not sure he trusts a super's definition of 'not far,' but he's keeping up just fine. He doesn't even slide much as they leave the cover of the forest and pick their way down a short incline, Barnes' therapy raptor forging ahead like she's spoiling for a fight. There are a lot more dinosaurs in the neighborhood: trikes and a pair of brontos, something smaller that might be a Diplodocus that watches them curiously from the other side of the river. A giant scorpion roams the far shore, looking for prey, but Barnes ignores it. With good reason, it turns out; the scorpion tries to pick a fight with a parasaur and goes chasing after it when the duckbill bleats in alarm and bolts for safety.

Maybe it's how tired he is, but Tony's starting to feel a bit dislocated from the world around him. The river's a seething hive of activity, but it's like they're travelling in the calm eye of a storm. Part of it may be the presence of a raptor keeping the other dinos at bay. The rest is definitely Barnes, who strolls along like he's got no reason to hurry, nothing to fear, who lends a casual assist whenever Tony needs it like he didn't just get his head bitten off a little while ago.

Oh. Right.

"You know I'm not mad at you, right?" Tony asks bluntly. He's too tired for subtlety, not that it's ever done him much good in the first place.

"Figured. So who are you mad at?"

"You want a list?"

Barnes snorts, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "In particular."

"Bruce burned my fields and salted the earth. For my own good," he adds morosely.

"Those white berries you've been chowing down on?" Barnes looks him up and down, not like he's casting judgment but like he's checking for injuries. "Thought you said that was aspirin."

"Er."

"Because too much of that shit will kill you," Barnes points out, brows scrunched in wary concern.

"So I may have been wrong about the aspirin thing. It's more like...okay, so it may not _actually be_ caffeine, but it's close enough to fool my body into not freaking out about the lack thereof. And I don't know if you've ever gone through any kind of withdrawal before--"

Barnes shrugs, mouth twisting humorlessly. He doesn't look away. "Once or twice."

"Nicotine?" He really hopes it's nicotine. He knows better even before Barnes shakes his head.

"Never really got into the habit of smoking. Couldn't, with Steve's asthma."

"Yeah, well." Fucking Hydra. "Caffeine's not so bad, but I don't have time to waste on the headaches and the rest of it. Plus I just want to sleep _all the time_ when I can't get my fix, and that's not an option."

And that? That's just proof that he's been awake and uncaffeinated for too long already, because he doesn't give people openings like that when his brain is working properly. Only instead of pointing out that sleep is a good thing, Barnes just asks, "Nightmares?"

"What?" Tony blinks, the lag as his brain shifts gears gratingly noticeable. "Oh. No. Well, yes, but that's not...there's too much to do, and all of it just leads somewhere else." He knows he's not making any sense, but Bucky hums encouragingly, eyes fixed on Tony like he's actually interested in where Tony's babble will take him. "Like...that totally-not-flint I had you grind up?"

Bucky nods, nothing grudging. He's a pretty good sport when it comes to putting that metal arm of his to work if it's work that doesn't involve murder or gross bodily harm.

"Right. See, I look at that and think, 'you know, I bet I could make gunpowder out of that,' or, y'know, _totally not gunpowder_ , but hey, totally not flint. Or I start throwing together a storage box to hold all this crap and start thinking of ways to make a compost bin instead, which of course leads me to crop plots to use the compost in, and hey, irrigation! Because why not just recreate the whole of human development while we're at it--it's not like we don't have the time!"

"Hey," Bucky says, hand twitching like he means to take Tony's shoulder before he thinks better of it. "We'll get home."

"I know we will!" Tony snaps, a little too loud. An Ankylosaur looks up from its grazing, snorting a low warning before ripping up another mouthful of grass. "I know," Tony repeats after a quick look around for dilos or raptors or T-Rexes, modulating his voice. "But sitting on my ass isn't going to get us there any quicker."

"I think this is the point where I'm supposed to point out that you passing out isn't going to help either, but I get the feeling you already know that."

"Genius," Tony mutters. At least Barnes isn't patronizing about it.

"Thing is, it's still going to take time. I mean, if a magical solution comes along, great. I'll take it. But if it doesn't...."

Tony clenches his jaw. He knows he needs to pace himself better. He doesn't need Barnes to tell him this. It's just-- "I'm used to pulling miracles out of my ass," he grumbles. "Being reduced to stone knives and bear skins is going to take some getting used to."

"Hey, a miracle's still a miracle, even when it's low-tech," Barnes swears, right elbow nudging into Tony's side. "Doesn't matter how many supplies they drop on us; you're the one who knows what to do with them."

Tony huffs. He wants to call bullshit, but he's the master of spotting bullshit when it's being aimed his way, and Barnes is serious. "What do you want to bet our implants would pull up instructions if we really needed to know?" he asks instead.

Barnes doesn't even try to hide his shudder. "Creepy. And no thanks. I'll take your best guess, if it's all the same to you."

That shouldn't be flattering. Barnes is basically saying he'd rather put up with Tony than let his head be fucked with by forces unknown, and better the devil you know, right? Except it feels an awful lot like solidarity.

"Eh," he says. "I'll sleep on it." Barnes gives a quiet laugh, mostly breath, but he looks pleased. "The stimberries are not optional, though."

"Don't worry," Bucky promises, and Tony almost believes him. "We've got you covered."

 _I'll believe that when I see it_ , he opens his mouth to say, but Barnes distracts him with a grin.

"Stimberries?"

"Call me Adam," Tony says with a shrug. "I'm naming all the things."

The trip back to camp is a lot easier than the trek out to the pod, though Tony's flagging by the time the first twist and turn into the valley's rock walls appears through the trees. The hide-soled cloth shoes he's wearing make more of a difference than he'd realized, though he's already making plans to improve upon the design, replicate what Barnes is wearing, maybe make a foray into furs. The mountains to the northwest aren't exactly a tropical paradise.

"Thanks for the escort," Tony forces himself to say just before they split. The gratitude is real; he's just annoyed that he needs an escort in the first place.

Barnes nods companionably. "No problem. Come find us if you want to go on another nature walk; I'm trying to get Lady to see the rest of you guys as pack too, and that's not going to happen without a few object lessons."

And wow, yes, good one, because Barnes treating Tony's moment of weakness like a favor Tony's done him? He's starting to see how Barnes has managed to keep on Cap's good side all these years.

He's not a complete asshole, though, so he nods in return, makes a face at Bruce's startled look, and ignores Rogers entirely as he goes to turn in for a nap, for real this time.

"Damn," he hears Bruce mutter. "I thought he was asleep all this time."

Barnes snorts. "Maybe if you'd sat on him, but I'm still betting Stark would've found a way to escape."

Is this a good time to let Barnes know he was always Tony's favorite Howling Commando? It seems like a pretty good time, only he's more than half asleep, so he's probably dead wrong.

"Anyway, I think he's turning in now," Barnes adds like it's no big deal.

"What on earth did you say to him?" Rogers wants to know, and this is it: the part where Barnes spills what he's learned for the good of the team. Tony gets it; he just doesn't have to like it.

"Hey, it's a long walk from here to the pod I took him to," Barnes says, completely truthful; Tony's feet will be feeling it for days. "If he's been awake as long as I think he has, the guy's probably exhausted."

Then he clams up. That's...unexpected. Surprising, even. Tony mentally bumps Bucky up to just under Bruce on the list of People I Should Not Be An Asshole To.

When he wakes to find a leaf-wrapped pile of stimberries waiting just inside his door, he bumps that ranking up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Bucky and Tony have leveled past the others, Bucky because of all the hunting and Tony because of all the making of things, and their beacon contents/engram pool have expanded to match. (Yes, I am just ridiculous enough to have looked these things up.) Don't worry, the others will catch up. XD
> 
> Also, beacons often contain entire thatch foundations, walls, etc, but that's ridiculous because they're bigger than the pods they'd be dropped in. So I explained that away as the pods containing the materials instead. _Game physics._


	8. Counter-Evolution

Stormwing circles the valley slowly, lazily riding the warm currents funneled in from three directions at once. He snaps a few gnats out of the air as he glides over the pond, the biggest prey he's seen all morning. He's not disappointed; it's not a day for battle, though if the Swarm show their antennae on his turf, he'll be more than happy to show them the error of their ways.

Across the clearing, Nightfrill pipes a greeting as she sweeps in through the dawnward entrance. One of the soft-skins--Doe Eyes--watches her briefly when Nightfrill glides past, then goes back to poking at fire.

Stormwing is slowly getting used to the soft-skins' reckless ways. They barely seem to notice the Swarm, pay no attention to the Strikers keeping them safe. They've already got one of their number sharing kills with a Ripper. Why not play with fire while they're at it?

"All clear?" Stormwing asks as Nightfrill angles to meet him.

"All clear!" she calls back cheerfully, swooping up and past to land on the rise overlooking the water.

The soft-skin that nests up there doesn't even look her way, preoccupied with sticks and stones and handfuls of grass. That one is always preoccupied, always busy. Her nests are just terrible--Stormwing agrees with the valley's small flock there--but maybe the biggest isn't meant to be a nest. Maybe it's meant to be a cave.

A terrible one, it must be said, because who ever heard of a cave made of grass? But Littlest Hen tries. Stormwing keeps a special eye out for her, doubting she'd even see one of the Swarm until it bit her.

"Ground Swarm," Redclaw calls from the entrance by the river, and Nightfrill takes wing as Stormwing moves to intercept. There's only three of the creeping crawlers; they foolishly brought none of the buzzing fliers to back them up. Despite being almost as large as a Striker, they go down quickly, mandibles clicking in despair. Stormwing bolts his kill, gnashing through the crunchy carapace to get at the meat inside. It's dangerous to leave anything uneaten when there's Swarm about, more dangerous still to leave prey to rot. The former will only draw the Swarm, but the latter might attract their larger cousins, and Stingers are chancier opponents.

Looking up from cleaning her talons, Nightfrill pauses, head cocked, and stares. "What is she doing to that stick?"

Following the direction of her gaze, Stormwing watches as Littlest Hen bends a long, narrow branch and stretches something between the two ends, like a tendon made of grass. The long stick stays bent and the grass tendon doesn't break. How curious.

"At least it's not another nest," Redclaw says in relief, shaking out his wings. "Or cave. Or...whatever. Poor thing."

Stormwing agrees absently. It really is a pity that Splendid Gold is...whatever he is. The pack's other two males seem to have picked their mates already, though maybe soft-skins don't pair off like some tribes do. When Littlest Hen goes into season properly--assuming she hasn't already--he supposes they'll find out then.

There are no more alerts for the rest of the day. Stormwing lets himself relax as the sky begins to darken; night patrol is Moonscale's responsibility. Curling up in a hollow in the grass, he wraps his tail around himself, closes his eyes--

\--and wakes to a horrible banging, Littlest Hen squawking at odd intervals as she rips apart her grass cave. Stormwing blinks sleepily, torn between irritation and confusion. The cave is odd, there's no getting around that, but Littlest Hen had seemed satisfied with it before. Now she seems dead set on destroying it, only...she's not actually tearing it apart, he realizes eventually. She's making it bigger, replacing the grass with wood.

He watches Littlest Hen throughout the day as the new cave takes shape. It's better than the last one, but still odd. A cave made of wood? But Littlest Hen seems happy enough, settling down outside to pick grass apart for reasons known only to her.

The top of the new cave is very sturdy, taking Stormwing's weight without shifting as he glides in for a landing. Nightfrill and Redclaw join him shortly, and they settle at the edge of the cave for a better view.

"What do you suppose the plant fluff is for?" Redclaw wonders aloud, tilting his head as Littlest Hen plucks another tuft free.

"Maybe she plans to build a real nest now," Nightfrill suggests, "and that's to line it."

"You think she built the cave to hold her nest?" Stormwing asks, sitting up straighter. Goodness, that _is_ clever, if it's true.

They watch the valley entrances hopefully, but none of the males return to notice Littlest Hen's industrious work. Mad Silver's favorite approaches after a while, but she doesn't try to run Littlest Hen off or steal her cave-nest. That's good; Stormwing would have been very tempted to bite her if she'd tried.

"What's going on?" Moonscale asks as she joins them, no doubt awakened by Littlest Hen's earlier banging around. "Are they fighting? Is there going to be a fight?"

"I don't think so," Stormwing says slowly. Mad Silver's favorite is looking right at them, and Littlest Hen turns to look as well before turning back to her grass pile. Littlest Hen is never truly relaxed, but the two seem at ease with one another. Friendly. "I think Littlest Hen is being mother-henned."

"That's _adorable_ ," Nightfrill squeaks, watching them wide-eyed.

Stormwing bobs his head repeatedly, feeling better about Littlest Hen's chances in the soft-skin pack. Whatever her place in the pecking order, at least she seems to be in no danger of being bullied or pushed out.

Everything seems fine for a while. Littlest Hen stays busy with her strange projects, working through the night, according to Moonscale. When she leaves briefly and returns only to snarl at Doe Eyes, Stormwing doesn't think much of it. Pack squabble sometimes, and Littlest Hen and Doe Eyes seem to be particular friends, perhaps because they're both unmated. Doe Eyes leads Littlest Hen back to the cave--where Littlest Hen has in fact built another terrible nest--and leaves her alone.

Littlest Hen stays just long enough for Doe Eyes to put her from her mind before sneaking out of the valley again.

Stormwing isn't worried at first. Littlest Hen rarely ventures far, only leaving to forage more of the white berries she favors. But hours pass with no sign of her return, and Stormwing begins to wonder. Should he have followed when she left? She might have been mobbed by the Swarm, or run into a Ripper that doesn't favor her kind, or simply lost her way.

When Mad Silver's favorite returns alone, Stormwing realizes he's been hoping that Littlest Hen has simply found another of her pack to forage alongside. He has no idea what possessed her to leave in the first place--the Swarm are everywhere, and she's far too easily distracted to be out wandering alone--and he doesn't rest easy until he sees her stumble in, flanking Mad Silver with the Ripper guarding their backs.

"Oh, thank goodness." Nightfrill says aloud what Stormwing is only thinking, joining him on the cavetop with Redclaw following close behind.

"Never thought I'd be glad to see a Ripper," Redclaw agrees, "but I guess there's a first time for everything."

Mad Silver heads straight for his favorite, leaving poor Littlest Hen to go curl up in her cave-nest all alone. It's sad. Stormwing agrees the nest part could use some work, but Littlest Hen seems terribly clever otherwise, and she tries so hard, leaving little courting gifts for all the pack alike. And all right, maybe it's never food that she leaves--Doe Eyes will find a mate long before she does at this rate--and maybe the nests she tries to show off are all pretty awful, but still. She _tries_.

He's a little disturbed that he's so invested in the mated lives of a soft-skin pack, but he can't deny that he feels better about the whole thing when he catches Mad Silver sneaking a gift of berries while his favorite isn't looking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so Meganeura and Titanomyrma--the oversized dragonflies and ants, aka the Swarm? SUCK. Dimorphodons, however, are awesome and a literal lifesaver against the Swarm. They may be little, but I've watched them take out nearly every dinosaur there is, even in multiples, because most things simply can't turn tightly enough to get a bite in unless you're riding it and using better tactics. (This is why a turtle, or a human on foot, can actually take down a T-Rex solo, as it happens.) As I recall, Dimorphs and Dragonflies were introduced at the same time, as a sort of foil for each other, so. There you go. Evolutionary counters. :D


	9. Active vs Passive

The thing is, Bucky hasn't spent much time worrying about the other raptors in the area. He knows they're there; he's seen them at a distance, usually little groups of three, sometimes larger packs of five or more. They rarely stick around long enough for him to really get a read on them, other than that they're fast, deadly, and always on the move, like sharks. It's just that the scorpions, the dilos and the T-Rexes give him reason to worry all the time. The raptors, not so much.

Until they attack.

He's out walking the tree line on the other side of the western gully, just him and Lady, when Lady whips around with a furious snarl and throws herself at a dark, fast-moving shape that has her matched for size, nearly for speed. She gets in the first bite, but it's got momentum on its side, and they're too closely locked for Bucky to actually use the spear he's been lugging around.

He gets that chance in the very next instant as a second dinosaur bursts out of the trees, lunging right for him. It's a raptor-- _fuck_ \--it's a _pack_ of raptors, and Bucky doesn't have time to think, only to move.

He drives the point of his spear right through the jaws opened wide to take his face off and draws back a splintered shaft as the dying raptor's teeth snap shut in one last, reflexive bite. Whipping his long stick around fast, he lays open the face of a skinny, greenish raptor that leaps at him with a triumphant shriek. Before he can try driving the shattered end of his former spear into its chest, Lady hits it broadside, her teeth ripping at its throat in lightning-fast slashes that tear mouthfuls of flesh away in a spray of blood. A glance finds the first raptor down, already bled out with its head half-detached from the ruin of its neck, and that's three. Raptors usually hunt in threes, right?

He loses the remains of his spear to the fourth when it bites down faster than he can stab, jerking the mangled shaft out of his hand. Lady practically flattens the thing, leaping onto its back and digging in with those impressive claws, ripping at its head as it tries and fails to throw her off. That leaves the last one for him, and it's a crazy moment of déjà vu to find himself as unarmed as he ever gets, swinging his fist at a whirlwind of flashing teeth hell-bent on tearing him apart.

Heart in his throat, he spins around the instant the fifth raptor drops, terrified what shape he's going to find his girl in, only to find Lady tearing into the carcass of the raptor she just brought down. She bolts her kill with utter disregard for the fact that it's her own kind, a low growl getting choked off between mouthfuls. Bucky's stomach hitches uncertainly at that, but...under the blood painting her hide, he can see the raw, wet divots where teeth have scored deep, and they close up one by one as he watches.

Right. Dinosaur. With a supersoldier's metabolism or better and no time or patience for inconvenient human taboos.

Turning back to the last raptor, he's not entirely surprised to find it still alive. If there's one thing he knows about raptors, it's that they're tough sonsofbitches, and this last one is pretty impressive. It's a deep maroon, nearly black, with flashy teal feathers that stand out sharply against its dark hide. Taller and broader than Lady, it has a heavier frame built more for strength than speed; though it looks like it's been eating better than any of its pack, that's probably why it arrived last to the fight.

Tough and strong as it probably is, right now it looks pretty pitiful. And yeah, while that's not his fault, Bucky's still the one responsible for that. They could just walk away, leave it to wake up on its own, but he's seen how quick other dinosaurs are to take advantage of a free lunch; walking away is no better than killing it himself. Besides, he gets the feeling that raptors don't much care for being alone. They'll even take human companionship if that's all that's on offer, though that can't be an adequate substitute.

It's not like he wouldn't miss her if she went back to the wild, but if Lady had a friend...if she'd be happier with a pack....

He looks at his girl then back at the new raptor. This one's probably a boy. That's probably not nearly as good a reason for what he's thinking as he thinks it is.

"Okay, Lady," he says slowly. "Pay attention, now."

It takes a few false starts to get her to understand 'stay,' but there's no way he's going to feed an injured raptor the remains of its _own pack_ , so dilo hunting it is.

And if it turns out Lady _doesn't_ understand 'guard', well, clearly it just wasn't meant to be.

***

Tony looks up from the cooking pot he's hanging on a tripod for Bruce and stares. Barnes and his murdersaur are back, but unless the side effects of the stimberries are finally catching up to him, the number of homicidal ducklings trailing Barnes has doubled.

"What the hell?"

Murdersaur Two snarls at the sound of Tony's voice, muscles bunching to strike.

Murdersaur One snaps irritably at its face, even before Barnes can get out a soothing, "Easy there, boy."

Lady glares at her unruly counterpart, tail twitching sharply. Despite being bigger and broader, the new one ducks its head with a placating croon. Clearly someone isn't living up to Lady's standards of conduct, and...huh. So raptors really are matriarchal. Score one for the movies.

"So this one's a boy?" Tony asks on autopilot as he gets the cookpot hung. "What'd you name it, Tramp?"

"Hey, now--my girl's a _lady_ ," Barnes insists, a laugh lurking somewhere under his wounded look. "She's not going to hang out with some tramp."

"Uh-huh. So what did you name it?"

"Rake," Barnes says with a raffish grin of his own.

Tony groans. Really he should have seen that coming. "And you felt the need to double our chances of being eaten in our sleep...why?"

"Yeah, well," Barnes says sheepishly, hooking his right hand around the back of his neck. "I kind of knocked him out a bit, and I couldn't just leave him there to get eaten. Plus we kind of took out his pack, and I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure raptors are really big on having a pack. Only, uh...instead of running off together to have lots of little baby raptors, they both ended up following me home."

Tony figures the best response to that is to just keep staring. It's not that he's pro-murdersaur, but giving your best weapon the option to live free or die--

Actually, no. He's not sure why he's surprised in the slightest. That should've been a no-brainer.

"Okay, whatever. Deadly and Deadlier there can stay. Just know that if either one of them kills us and feasts on our entrails, I'm going to be very disappointed."

"Fair enough," Barnes says with a shrug, patting Lady's neck as if to reassure her that he doesn't believe a word of Tony's entirely sensible warnings.

The new raptor watches them wide-eyed, edging curiously closer and freezing when Lady's head twitches his way, her narrowed eyes stilling him in his tracks. Barnes snorts quietly and reaches over to pet him too. New Guy blinks in lizardy astonishment, glancing at Lady and then back to Barnes, who just keeps petting.

Haltingly, the new one starts up with the droning croon that frankly drives Tony a little bit nuts. He's pretty sure Barnes finds it relaxing, if the slow settling of his shoulders is any indication.

Figures.

***

Heat and cold don't usually bother Steve all that much; he's aware of them, but his body is quick to adapt, if not always in the ways he'd prefer. Extreme cold still makes him sleepy, a fact that's kept him awake more nights than he cares to think about. Extreme heat mostly just makes him grumpy. He's trying really hard to bear that in mind at all times, considering where they are.

He glances at the sky again as he carefully stows the seedlings he's collected in a small pocket of his backpack. The morning's clouds have all but boiled away, and the low haze that's taken their place is a dull, worrisome orange. What movement he can spot on the ground is mostly gathered at the river downslope or deep in the shelter of the trees. When even the dinosaurs think it's too hot, it's probably time for a smart man to take shelter.

Rising heavily to his feet, Steve drags the back of his hand along his hairline and grimaces as it comes away wet. Part of him--the part that wakes from nightmares of a slow freeze--thinks he should love the heat, but honestly, he hates it. Always has, always will. Winter's still his favorite time of year, for ridiculous, sentimental reasons that revolve around huddling for warmth under shared blankets, back when two men still needed an excuse for that sort of thing.

Heading back to their base camp, Steve finds he's not the only one who opted to cut short their foraging for the day. Smoke rises from a small fire lit under a cleverly-constructed new cookpot, but Bruce watches it from a distance, lazily fanning himself with a palm leaf. On one of the rocky outcroppings under the trees, Tony lies completely flat, trying to make himself one with the stone, while Clint and Thor mock-fight in the still-clear water of the pond, Natasha egging them on from the shallows.

He almost doesn't spot Bucky at first, because the idiot's still in his leathers, shadow blending into shadow where the gleaming, dark hide of--

Is that a second raptor?

"Hey, Steve," Bucky calls from his own little nest under the trees, sitting with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, his back propped against Lady's sturdy bulk where she's curled up behind him. A new, even larger raptor has settled down at his side, but while its head turns in constant surveillance of the camp and its occupants, it looks content to stay right where it is.

Though he tries not to let it show, Steve's first reaction is pure dismay. If Lady's a better chaperone than both their mothers put together, what are two raptors going to be like?

Bucky's apologetic grimace lets Steve know he wasn't nearly as opaque as he was hoping, but Bucky doesn't shift from his casual sprawl. If Steve were a more insecure person--if Bucky were anyone but Bucky--he'd maybe start to wonder if he should be taking this as a hint, but...well. Time and place. He knows. They're in enemy territory, even if the enemy has yet to show its face.

"Hey, Buck," he says, offering up a genuine smile as his more sensible side takes hold. "Found another friend, I see."

"You could say that," Bucky says, one corner of his mouth twitching up wryly. "More like he found us, but who's counting?"

Steve frowns. "Is everyone okay?"

"Oh, sure. My girl's one hell of a fighter," Bucky says proudly, glancing back over his shoulder to beam at his dinosaur. Lady arches her neck, all but preening under his regard. When Bucky nods at the newest addition, his smile turns chagrined. "This guy, well...he ended up being the last of his pack, so we kind of took him in."

"Yeah? What's his name, then?"

"Rake," Bucky says with an expectant grin.

Steve huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "What, 'Tramp' was too easy?"

"Why do you people keep thinking my girl's gonna settle for some tramp?" Bucky protests, mock-insulted. "She's a _lady_."

"She's a dinosaur," Steve counters wryly.

"A dinosaur with _standards_."

"Uh-huh. And is this one any friendlier?"

"Not even a little bit," Bucky admits, "but Lady's got him well in hand. I guess maybe having her around you guys is sort of working; this big mook nearly went for Tony when I brought him in, but Lady nixed that on her own."

"That's...good?" And it is good; he's just surprised, and maybe a little worried about what might have happened if Bucky hadn't been here. Of course, if Bucky hadn't been here, the raptor wouldn't have been here either, unless it wandered in by chance.

Maybe he'd better talk to Tony about putting up some walls, gates. They're sheltered here, not protected.

"Better than the alternative," Bucky says with a shrug. "But look at it this way; with two of 'em, our supply options just improved."

"Thinking of going after bigger game?" He knows he probably doesn't have to worry about Bucky; Bucky's smart, he's tough, and if it comes to it, he's _fast_. All the same, if Bucky's planning on putting his raptors to the test, Steve can't help wondering if it'd be okay for him to tag along.

Bucky hunches a shoulder. "Maybe. Haven't really wanted to tangle with an elkasaur on our own, but those antlers have to be good for something, and we could probably use the pelts."

Steve cautiously lets go of the tension in his shoulders. At least Bucky doesn't have his eye on a T-Rex.

"Plus, have you checked out that mountain across the river? There's actual saber-toothed tigers up there! I mean, they travel in packs, so we've been keeping our distance, but wow."

It takes all of Steve's might to resist the urge to drop his head into his hands and chant _why_ for a while.

God help them all if Bucky comes across an abandoned baby _anything_ , because Steve knows exactly how that will play out.

***

Sitting tailor-fashion in front of his hut, Tony tugs on the cords of a makeshift bola and checks the knots a final time. He's not quite sure what Barton wants a bola _for_ , but with all the work the others have done in keeping him supplied with materials, it's only fair that he take requests.

He's about to call it good and start working on a spare when a long, broad shadow falls across him.

Captain America's disappointed face still has the power to make his guts squirm uncomfortably-- _thanks, Dad_ \--but the look of helpless despair Steve's fixing on him right now is some kind of weapons-grade shit. Tony _instantly_ wants to build him a robot and find him a warm blanket.

"What?" he manages after an uncomfortable beat of silence, too frazzled to get out any of the half-dozen panicked queries and offers building up behind his teeth.

"Did you tell Bucky you _wanted_ a sabertooth?"

"Uh...maybe? Probably? You mean dead, right? Oh shit, is he okay?"

Steve gives him a mournful look that has Tony shooting to his feet, heart in his throat, his newest project spilling unnoticed to the grass. He'd been thinking of pelts, the truly useful size of those teeth, and he'd only mentioned it in passing. He hadn't expected Barnes to actually listen. Why the hell would Barnes do that, anyway? What does Tony know about hunting? _This is why people don't listen to him_.

His mind's already conjuring every possible worst-case scenario--bloody gashes, the wrong arm missing, Lady carrying her human home draped across her back like some depressing Remington painting--but when he looks past Steve, he sees Barnes waltzing in without a mark on him, Murdersaur Two doing the actual funeral hauling, and Murdersaur _Three_ bringing up...the...rear.

"He found another raptor?" Tony demands, incredulous.

"Maybe it took three," Steve says with a sigh. "He did say sabertooths travel in packs."

"So...what? He just tamed another raptor out of the blue just in case?"

"I didn't ask," Steve admits.

Part of Tony just wants to let it go, but seriously. What the fuck?

He starts down the hill with a purposeful stride, Steve hot on his heels, his nerves still snapping with adrenaline.

Murdersaur Two stands quietly, watching with interest as Bucky wrestles what's left of the dead sabertooth off its back. It's mostly just the pelt, but even carefully-rolled, the thing is enormous. As Bruce and the others drop what they're doing to come investigate, the newest raptor--a large, greyish creature with pale green feathers--edges closer to Lady, making a warning rattle deep in its throat.

"Easy, there," Barnes murmurs, pausing to pet the thing until it settles. "There you go. No one's gonna hurt you; it's okay."

Tony's on the verge of asking if Bucky hit his _head_ out there until he gets a good luck at the saber pelt, and then all he can do is stare.

The stripes are black, but the base coat is distinctly, undeniably green.

"By the power of Greyskull," Clint murmurs reverently into the silence.

Bruce shakes his head. "But why is it green?"

"That's what she--" Tony takes one look at Bruce's face and cuts himself off with a cough. "Yeah, uh...this isn't really covered by divergent evolution, is it?"

"Not really," Bruce says with a smug little half-smile. Tony makes a face at him. Spoilsport. "The two types of melanin that give us our usual color palette for skin and hair don't have green in their range. I suppose with some dedicated genetic engineering it might be possible, but...."

Tony nods. "That still leaves the question of why. Unless it's an unintended side effect, or else our would-be alien overlords watch a lot of 80's cartoons."

"So maybe it's a hint?" Clint suggests with a grin. "Ride the tiger. Literally."

"God knows they're big enough," Bucky agrees with a soft huff of laughter, patting Murdersaur Two for a job well done.

"Is that why you've added another duckling?" Tony asks, eyeing the newest raptor distractedly. There's an idea scratching at the back of his thoughts--a crazy idea, but he's pretty sure he can pull it off.

"Oh," Bucky says with a tiny cringe, glancing guiltily at his new pet. "No, uh...we got lucky and found this cat alone, and we'd just taken it down when a raptor pack showed up. Must've heard the noise, I guess, and one thing led to another...." Bucky shrugs, hands held out to the side, palms up, as if to ask 'what can you do?' "Anyway, I ended up knocking this poor fella out. Didn't figure sabertooth was going to be too appetizing to you or me, so when this fella woke up, I fed him the meat, and then he followed us home."

Tony's not alone. _Everyone_ stares at Barnes, who peers at them all from under his lashes like he just brought back a puppy, and can he keep it, he'll take it for walks and _everything_.

"What's his name?" Steve asks resignedly, folding like a house of cards.

Bucky lights up with the sweet little smile of a kid half his age, knowing he's won. "Lasher," he says with an excited grin. "He does this hilarious thing with his tail, just wait 'til you see it."

Tony can only shake his head. Rogers may be utterly whipped, but frankly speaking, the rest of them aren't much better.

That apparently includes the raptors.

***

"I swear," Clint protests earnestly, practically wringing his hands as Steve continues to fix him with a look that combines the soulfulness of a thousand basset hounds into one concentrated beam. "I only turned my back for a second!"

Proof positive that sending Bucky out via the buddy system is useless, Raptor Number Four leans ecstatically into the rubdown it's getting, head tipped back to bare its throat as Barnes scrubs a handful of wet moss over its reddish-orange hide. Its contented drone is echoed by the other three, two patiently waiting their turn while Lady, freshly-bathed, basks lazily in the sun.

Steve just sighs. Clint feels for him, he really does, but he didn't raise himself to be a fool. If someone else wants to get in the way of the raptor whisperer at work, more power to them, because they're going to need it. Clint's just happy all that murderous potential is on their side.

Okay, and watching the legendary Winter Soldier sleep cuddled up in a _literal pile of raptors_ is fucking hilarious, why lie?

***

Natasha frowns as James comes storming back into camp, _five_ raptors crooning worriedly at his back. He all but radiates impending violence in the set of his shoulders, his smooth, angry stride, but with his teeth bared in a furious grimace and his eyes lit with purpose, he couldn't look _less_ like the man who'd trained her then shot her twice.

"Did you pick up another stray?" she asks as he draws near, his little pack clustered close on his heels.

"I don't wanna talk about it," he says thickly as he sweeps right past, heading straight for Stark.

She hovers, ready to run interference, because while those two _seem_ to have found a common ground at some point, she knows how things can fracture when tempers are running high. Add in the fact that Tony has only seen James at his best and on his best behavior since Siberia, and she's prepared for an explosion.

"Hey, Tony...?"

Natasha blinks. She was _not_ expecting hesitation just now, for James to sound like a man asking for a favor he doesn't think he deserves.

"Huh?" Stark asks, looking up from the oven-like thing he's been building all morning but without really looking, his mind clearly elsewhere.

"Did you say you could make not-really-gunpowder from that not-really-flint? Because I really need to go murder a whole fuck-ton of scorpions."

That gets Stark's attention, but instead of getting annoyed or pointing out just how much work he already has on his plate, Stark just stares at James for a long moment before nodding once. "Right, then. I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Tony," James says with one of his tiny, genuine smiles.

Well. That's interesting.

***

Steve never actually looks for trouble when he heads out. With Bucky and now Clint seeing to the 'hunter' side of things, someone needs to pick up the slack in the 'gatherer' department, and he's fine with that. It's easier to put his eidetic memory to work than have the others use their best guess for which plants are safe, and he has yet to run into a dinosaur he can't handle.

He's maybe a little more sensitive today to the creatures around him after listening to Bucky mutter about asshole scorpions, though he tries not to be. He knows, and he knows Bucky knows, that scorpions can't really _be_ assholes. They're just scorpions being scorpions. Bucky's usually pretty understanding of that, though something about raptors seems to make him lose his mind.

Which is fine. Anything that makes Bucky happy is perfectly fine with Steve, and from the way Bucky dotes on his strange little group of homicidal ducklings, it's clear Bucky adores them. If Bucky wants to believe a group of hungry scorpions were 'being dicks' to an unfortunate raptor pack of which Bucky only managed to save one, Steve's not going to argue.

He _is_ going to make sure to stay out of the scorpions' way, because learning their stings contain some kind of tranquilizing agent that can knock down a super-raptor? Not something he wants to fall afoul of.

He has a backpack full of berries today thanks to Tony's preoccupation with building a smelter, or forge, or...whatever it is. All he knows for certain is that Tony's deeply invested in its completion and that he keeps sending Thor out for more rocks. That's left Steve on harvesting duty, and he's been trying to be mindful about it, spreading out his collection sites so that he doesn't strip bare any one area.

He's been following the river this time, and he's just about made his way to the tip of the eastern forests when a low, groaning bellow draws his attention. It sounds like a creature in pain, and Steve quickens his steps unconsciously as the cry comes again. A different creature gives a strange, roaring squawk accompanied by a huge splash, the thrashing of agitated limbs cutting through the shallows swiftly following.

Steve hangs back as he rounds a bend in the river, frowning as he takes in the scene on the opposite shore. A diplodocus, one of the area's bigger herbivores, had been grazing on the bushes at the tree line, but it's been surrounded by a flock--a pack?--of the strangest birds Steve's ever seen. They remind him a little of dodos with their stocky bodies, large heads and short, stubby wings, but they're as tall as he is; their beaks look capable of snapping bones like twigs, and their huge, taloned feet leave deep gouges in the sand as they sprint to attack. Steve grimaces, knowing he shouldn't interfere but feeling like some heartless cameraman on a nature documentary shoot.

"Circle of life," he mutters to himself as the diplo gives another mournful cry. "They're just birds being birds."

Then he sees the diplo lean down to head-butt one of its attackers away, only--then it looks confused by the bird's absence. Without mounting horror, Steve watches it try again, and it's--it's not trying to push the birds away. They're practically ripping it apart, and _it's trying to make friends_.

"Oh, come on!" he shouts, striding determinedly towards the water. He nearly trips over a dead dodo just lying in the sand, uneaten, and now that he's looking, he spots three more dodos and a parasaur, all left to rot where they fell. Jesus. Those birds aren't even hungry; they're just killing everything that can't run away fast enough.

Steve fists his hands, the right clamping tight on the haft of a spear he's been using as a walking stick.

Those birds are fucking _assholes_.

"Hey!" he yells at the top of his lungs. "Hey, over here!"

As he'd hoped, the nearest bird is easily distracted. Rather than go right back to attacking the diplo, it half-wades, half-swims toward him. Compared to a full-grown diplodocus, he must look like easy prey.

He hasn't had much practice with a spear, but once the Dora Milaje twigged to the fact that he'd left his shield behind in Siberia, they'd roped him into training with every weapon they could put in his hands. It comes back to him effortlessly: the smooth calculations of thrust and jab, keeping the enemy at a safe distance and not getting his weapon trapped in the carcass when the point does its job.

As the first bird goes down, he attracts the notice of the second, then the third. Something about his very presence seems to infuriate them; he's not sure whether they're just highly territorial or if the ferocity of their attack is a survival mechanism that's evolved in response to this world's harsh conditions. He doesn't much care so long as it gets them away from the poor beast they've been tormenting, and he's ready for them when they come.

When the last bird drops--with an eerie roar that's not bird-like at all--Steve takes a moment to catch his breath, staring across the water with a gnawing sense of guilt. The diplo's still on its feet, but it looks terrible, its green hide and pale underbelly streaked liberally with blood. It's only a matter of time before something catches a whiff of it and finishes the job, and now he understands exactly why Bucky can never just walk away and leave things to chance. Leaving now would just prolong the inevitable, and he's the reason this dinosaur's still alive to be hurt yet again. Having come this far, he has to at least try to help.

"Hey, big guy," he calls uncertainly. Bucky always makes this part look easy, and Steve still doesn't know how he does it. Wild, tame, or feral, Bucky has a way of talking to animals that calms them right down, makes them want to trust him. "Uh, I'm going to come over there, so--"

The diplo sort of... _purrs_ at him, low and deep. The next thing Steve knows, it's coming his way, splashing effortlessly through water that would have come up to Steve's shoulders at its shallowest point. Its massive head dips down toward him as it lumbers out of the water, and before he can fend it off--

"Oof," he huffs as he's nearly knocked off his feet by a hearty nudge, the diplo rumbling happily deep in its chest. "Okay, boy, just--oh, wow, you _are_ friendly," he says with a helpless laugh as the diplo tries to lean into his warding hands. "I bet you're hungry, huh?"

He's only guessing that all dinosaurs have the same healing capabilities, but if it works for the raptors, it's worth a try.

What he's carrying in his pack probably won't even make a decent snack for a creature this size, but he's able to distract it from its playful demands for his attention by stripping the nearest bushes and offering up berries by the handful. He's relieved to see his hunch was correct; though it still looks like it's been put through a shredder, its wounds are closing before his eyes.

"Well," Steve says slowly, "that's good. I mean. You'll be okay on your own, right?"

It looks at him with those huge, melting eyes, purring like a freight train, and nudges at his shoulder until he reaches up to pat its nose.

***

Tony doesn't pay too much attention at first to the slow, steady vibrations of a monstrously heavy tread. Brontos often trek along the beach during the day, and they're only dangerous if something else provokes one into swinging that tail. It's not until a long neck comes poking around a bend in the rock, a relatively tiny head peering around curiously, that Tony realizes they're being invaded.

By invitation, from the sounds of it.

"Okay, boy, that's it, keep--whoa, whoa, watch the tree--there you go, keep following me, now."

Tony sets his half-formed block of clay aside and rises slowly to his feet, vaguely aware of Barnes likewise abandoning the not-really-gunpowder he's been helping to grind. Tony's a little more aware of the hovering raptor pack perking up like Christmas came early, and he's sure that's about to become _very_ important, except--

It's not Barnes this time. The metaphoric dinosaur bringing home this prehistoric stray? It's Rogers.

"What the hell?" Tony demands. He's already halfway to the riverside entrance before he realizes he means to move, but he's irresistibly drawn to massive pieces of machinery, and apparently that goes for anything of mind-boggling dimensions.

There's a joke in there about size kinks, but he bookmarks it regretfully for another day.

"Oh, uh--Tony," Steve greets him distractedly. "Maybe you'd better-- _gently, Tiny_!" he yelps as the dino's huge head--and _Jesus fuck_ , what is with those teeth; isn't this thing a herbivore?--swings down towards Tony like a battering ram.

"Oof," Barnes says as he takes the blow right in the center of the chest, heels skidding in the grass as he's shoved back a pace or two. Tony stares, frozen in his tracks, because--did Barnes really just throw himself between Tony and a dinosaur? "Oh, shit," Barnes coughs out as the--diplodocus? maybe?--gives him a tiny nudge, like a dog trying to sneakily nose its way under an elbow.

Pushing off the happily-rumbling dinosaur's nose with both hands, Barnes spins around, throws both hands out, and barks, "Lady, _no_!"

"Oh, shit," Tony echoes breathlessly, frozen for real this time as he hears five pairs of taloned feet land in the grass behind him. They're so close he can hear them breathe, and when he slowly turns his head against his better judgment, he finds all five crouched within striking distance, fanned out to charge past him and trembling with barely-restrained violence.

"Uh...come on, boy," Rogers calls to his dino, patting encouragingly at the front of one tree-trunk leg. "Back up a bit, now. Leave Bucky alone, and the nice raptors will leave you alone, okay?"

"Let's hope," Bucky mutters under his breath.

"Okay," Tony says slowly. He refuses to acknowledge the icy prickle slithering down his spine as the raptors slink over to Bucky, one by one, glaring balefully at the lunch they've been denied. "But seriously. What the hell? Is this a petting zoo? Are you--wait, is this an arms race? Are you trying to one-up the raptors? Because if this is your way of saying 'challenge accepted'--"

"Some asshole birds were going to eat him alive," Steve interrupts with a mulish scowl, aggressively petting the diplo's massive leg. It's the only bit he can actually _reach_ until it snakes its head down to nudge him like an affectionate cat, provided the cat's the size of a whale. It doesn't quite knock Rogers off his feet, but hey, supersoldier.

Bucky just nods, face screwing up in sympathy even as he's trying to pet five raptors at once. "Oh, yeah. Those birds are total assholes."

"What, so we're running a dino rescue now?" It's not that Tony's absolutely, philosophically opposed to the idea, but it bothers him at a gut-deep level he's hard-pressed to explain. It just--

"Steve always wanted a dog," Bucky says with a helpless shrug, and _that_. That's the thing that bothers him.

Getting used to the dinosaurs, bringing them home, making pets out of them. It just feels like they're getting too comfortable, and that's a little too close to giving up for his peace of mind.

"Fine," he grumbles, shoulders slumping at Steve's worried look. "Fine, yes, you can keep your dog. But you're taking care of it, and anything it breaks is your responsibility."

"Thanks, Tony," Steve says with a crooked smile, patting his big, dumb dino's nose.

Tony throws up his hands, turning to go back to the molds he'd been carving for some very simple bullets, when--

Jerking back around, Tony stares, incredulous. "' _Tiny_ '?"

***

Bucky swears the sixth raptor just fell in with the others one day, but that whole afternoon had been kind of crazy. They'd been ambushed by a trio of Allosaurs, and while they'd all come out alive from that, he'd still been checking everyone over when a good-sized pack of dilos came along looking to stir the pot. When they finally caught a break, he'd rolled up his sleeves and started butchering one of the Allosaurs, opening it up so the worst-wounded could more easily get at the best meat.

He'd been hand-feeding a prime cut to a raptor still-groggy from dilo venom when he realized he didn't _have_ a raptor in deep emerald green.

Whatever. He does now.

***

Clint's minding his own business, idly watching the pteranodons soaring out across the ocean and definitely _not_ thinking of that scene in the newest Jurassic Park movie, when he comes across the egg. It's absolutely enormous, a little taller than his hip, and at first glance it looks like someone's staging an elaborate joke: it's a brilliant red, dotted with large white spots, almost like an Easter egg. Caution urges him to keep his distance, but curiosity wins out. The beach is practically deserted in every direction, and there's no way a dodo laid this.

The shell is hard when he touches it, and despite its size, it doesn't weigh all that much. He's not about to try lifting it, but when he gives it an experimental push, it rolls easily enough. It's not that he's thinking of taking it, exactly, although it's weird that it's not in a nest. Maybe this one's a dud. And he is pretty close to base, and he can just imagine the laugh Thor will get out of it if he presents it as breakfast, especially after the size of the fish that guy's been bringing in. He gives it one more push.

With a roar that shakes the air, a fucking _T-Rex_ shoves its head and then the rest of its stocky body through a too-small gap in the trees up the hill, stout trunks giving way to either side of it with a groaning snap. Clint doesn't wait to see if the undergrowth or the steep rise it'll have to slide down will slow its charge; he takes off running down the beach, cursing silently as the sand drags at his feet.

Behind him the hammering thuds of the Rex's heavy footfalls pick up speed. It may be slow to get started, but he's seen how fast those things can move once they've built up a full head of steam, and there's nothing like the kind of cover he'd need to distract it anywhere close-by. He's got his bow, but the thing's too close, and a fat lot of good the arrows he's got are going to do against a beast that size.

He doesn't much like the one option he does have, but there's a chance the thing won't be able to fit through the narrow openings in the rock walls that surround the valley. And if he's wrong, well...Thor's been wanting to hunt one of these, and this way he'll get his chance without Barnes giving him the sad eyes for it.

Keeping his eyes peeled for the leaning tree that lets him know he's getting close, Clint peels away from the shoreline and threads his way through bushes and palm saplings, sprinting for the trees. Branches crackle at his back as the Rex bulls a path for itself, and Clint's stomach fills with an awful, icy weightlessness as he pelts down the final stretch. For once the high rock walls to either side seem almost spacious, definitely wide enough to allow a Rex to pass unhindered.

He wants to start yelling his head off _now_ , but he still needs his breath to run.

"Coming in hot!" he shouts the instant he bursts out into the valley, and fuck, fuck, where the hell is Thor--where the hell is _Bruce_ \--but no; there's just Stark and Barnes and Nat, _God_ , and they're too damn far away to lend him a hand even if they were prepared for this.

A piercing whistle splits the air, jerking the attention of seven--seven?--surprised raptors away from the Rex leaning down to snap its teeth shut only a few feet shy of Clint's back. " _Go_!" Barnes yells, throwing an arm out as the raptors' eyes snap his way.

There's no time to dodge or even hit the deck. Exploding into motion, the raptor pack throw themselves headlong at their target, sprinting low to the ground as they stream past Clint. Leaping at the last minute, they hit the Rex so hard they shove it back several feet, ripping and tearing like a school of frenzied piranha. The Rex bellows as teeth find their mark--throat, chest, spine as two claw their way onto its back--but it doesn't even get a bite in. Seven raptors are too many, too fast for it to handle, and it goes down with a ground-shaking thud.

Slumping over to brace his hands on his knees, Clint heaves in several desperate, gasping breaths, watching in in helpless fascination as the raptors start stripping the carcass ravenously. He's never watched this bunch eat before, but they're as utterly vicious as their kin, snarling and growling as they rip meat away from bone. It's hard to believe these are the same oversized lizards that like to sleep in a brightly-colored puppy pile with a mostly-squishable human at their center, go nuts over bath time and watch everything Barnes does like he's their favorite Saturday morning cartoon. They're the reason Barnes comes back every day without a mark on him, and thank _God_ they know friend from foe, because that Rex could just as easily have been him.

"Well," Nat says on his left, looking him over closely as he straightens. "Looks like the raptors were a good idea after all."

Clint just shakes his head. He's not disagreeing; he just knows that _that_ isn't the point. Watching Barnes hurry over to check for injuries, the way the pack _makes room_ for him instead of guarding their kill--that's the point.

Clint may not have had the most formal education, but he looks into the things that interest him, and that's not normal pack behavior for _anything_. It's been easy so far to dismiss any potential weirdness as dinosaurs being dinosaurs, but he has to wonder: are they just that smart to begin with, adaptable enough to accept an ally when they see one, or have they been engineered to take to domestication like a duck to water?

He kind of hopes it's the latter. 'Clever girl' is already too accurate where Lady's concerned, and he wouldn't want to give her any ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My raptor pack in the game is so large, I go hunting with a boomerang now. *laughs*


	10. Neutral vs Attacking MY Target

Once she realizes the soft-skins aren't as hopeless as she's been told, Swiftkeen pays more attention to the noises they make. Littlest Hen is the loudest--probably broody, and just how long do they _stay_ in season, anyway?--while the quietest two are Doe Eyes and the red-crested one. (And _that_ had been an unpleasant surprise, realizing the soft-skin pack has two alphas, only the red alpha and Swiftkeen's own exist comfortably together. Soft-skins are strange.)

Her own soft-skin is also soft-spoken, rarely raising his voice, but even Littlest Hen--eventually--listens when he talks. He speaks soothingly to all of them, but she learns to recognize the admiration in his tone when Doe Eyes creates something tasty or Splendid Gold brings back a decent kill, respect when he and the red alpha converse or when the red alpha's favorite makes her bent branch do something interesting. The tone he uses with his favorite--and, for some reason, Littlest Hen--is fond, look-at-my-hatchlings fond, which she supposes makes sense. They're both a bit helpless, require frequent feedings.

When he speaks to her, his tone is admiring _and_ respectful, fond but proud. He even has a special noise for her and her alone.

When she realizes his noise for her means 'beautiful ruthless matriarch' in the soft-skin tongue, she has to preen herself thoroughly, all but beside herself over how adorable that is.

She gives up entirely on the notion that soft-skins are stupid.

Well. Not all of them, at least.

Mine, for instance, shows excellent taste.

***

Swiftkeen lays about fiercely with tooth and claw, incensed by this incursion into her territory, her heart thrilling with vicious satisfaction as Mine proves his mettle once again. Between them they decimate the invading pack, all but one lone male that falls to Mine's shiny paw. She isn't surprised; Mine's shiny paw is a strange, hard thing that grows from him like a Waterstrider's shell, and he's much, much stronger than he looks.

It's a good victory all the same. The last male alive is adequately impressive, not particularly fast, but strong and well-fed. He's a pleasing color, as well; it'll be a shame to eat him.

She's a little startled when Mine makes as if to leave _without_ killing their last intruder, but she follows along gamely. When he stops she pulls up short as well, cocking her head as he turns back to her.

He holds his paws up, smooth pads out and facing her, and croons something soothing. She cocks her head the other way. When he takes a step backward, again she moves to follow, and again he stops and croons. He waves his soft, pinkish paw in the way she's learned means don't-look-at-my-paw, look-over-there.

Swiftkeen stares. He wants her to stay? With this male? But _why_?

When he moves away a third time, she lets him go, uneasy but watchful. She can always follow him later. Just before he heads into the trees, she sees him stoop to pick up a rock, and that eases her mind somewhat. That means he's hunting, but--

She looks down at the two carcasses she hasn't yet touched and back up at Mine's retreating back. There's food _right here_. What's gotten into him now?

She narrows her eyes as a shadow of an idea creeps along the edge of her thoughts, just waiting to be noticed and caught. Rocks means Mine is hunting Spitters. Mine had given _her_ Spitters when they first became pack. If Mine thinks this is simply _how it's done_....

She glances back down at the fallen male, sizing him up more purposefully this time. Slow, yes, but very strong. Big enough to drive prey into the jaws of a pack and sturdy enough to stand his ground until quicker teeth can strike. She could certainly do worse.

The bright splash of his feathers against his dark hide is another point in his favor.

The instant he wakes, she sets her foot on his neck, largest claw tapping gently just under the point of his jaw. No fool, he freezes instantly.

She lets him stew for a long moment before informing him, "My soft-skin calls me 'Lady'."

He stares back at her in silence, not daring to move. Good.

"You will call me 'Yes, Lady'."

He blinks, only once. "But--"

She stills her tapping claw.

"Yes, Lady," he says meekly.

 _Very_ good.

***

Grimshine hardly knows what to make of this confusing new life he's found himself in. Just that morning he'd had a pack--maybe not the best or the strongest, but it was his and he'd known his place in it. But now....

Curled up in the shade of a cleverly-hidden valley, he stares at the soft-skins playing in the water without a care for the two Rippers in their midst. At the one who lies stretched on a flat rock nearby, limbs sprawled out, soft belly bared in blatant invitation. And the one _right next to him_ that leans back into a matriarch like a favored hatchling, who felled Grimshine himself with a single blow, then brought him food and groomed him like they were pack.

He sneaks a glance at his new matriarch, who regally ignores him. She's a stunning creature, sleek and sharp-edged. He has no reservations about being claimed by her--his place in _any_ pack has always been dependent on a matriarch's whim--but it frankly terrifies him a little that outside of the hunt, Yes Lady's soft-skin treats her like a dainty, precious treasure.

She _is_ , without a doubt, but he'd assumed there'd be more running and screaming on the soft-skins' parts, not this...crooning and grooming and casual indifference.

It makes him very, very nervous when a soft-skin even bigger than Yes Lady's Mine spots them and heads their way.

"Er...Yes Lady?"

Lambent eyes spear him expectantly, and he lets his gaze slide to the approaching female.

"Oh," she says, untroubled. "That's Mine's Favorite. I think they're mates."

"Really?" That's surprising. "I thought...the loud one." That one had been very excited to see Yes Lady's Mine when he'd returned, squawking and waving her arms like wings, almost like a courtship dance. A very, very bad one.

"Littlest Hen? Broody. _Constantly_. She builds terrible nests," Yes Lady adds after a moment.

Oh. Maybe that explains the broodiness if her previous nests have failed.

Grimshine watches the two soft-skins curiously. Yes Lady's Mine isn't _obvious_ about his preening, but he holds himself a little more proudly in the presence of his mate, shoulders back and chin lifted. His mate is shamelessly direct with her stares, watching this muted display without a hint of feigned indifference. She may not be in season now, but it seems obvious to Grimshine that she's already been courted and won.

"And this one hasn't run Littlest Hen off yet?" Grimshine asks, surprised.

Yes Lady flicks her crest in disgust. "Most of the females here are defective," she grumbles. "They don't even _hunt_."

Grimshine stares. " _None_ of them?"

"Only Red Alpha's Favorite," Yes Lady admits.

Grimshine glances back and forth between the two favorites, sizing them up and weighing their merits. Red Alpha's Favorite might be a decent hunter, but she's smaller and weaker, like her mate. By comparison, Yes Lady's Mine's Favorite practically glows with health, looks more than capable of protecting a nest, which is sure to be full of many, many eggs.

"At least they'll have strong hatchlings?"

Yes Lady sighs.

***

Gladthunder looks up with a mouthful of berries, watching hopefully as three new friends approach. They look a little like the flock, who are ever-so-nice, but if they are, they're very _big_ flock. That's exciting; he likes making new friends, but very small friends can be hard to keep track of.

"Hello!" he calls as the three newcomers sprint along the beach, very rapidly making the acquaintance of three small flock and a Flatmouth. "New friends!"

Oh good, they've seen him! He sways happily from side to side as they race to meet him, and--

Oh. Oh, dear.

"Oh, no," he mumbles as the trio fling themselves at his embarrassing bulk, beaks biting deep. "I'm sorry, did I scare you, friends? I know I'm very large," he says apologetically. He knows his size makes smaller tribes uncomfortable, worried he'll step on them or their nests, but he tries _so_ hard to be careful. Maybe if he shows them he means no harm?

He tries rubbing cheeks with his new friends, but they must be _very_ afraid, so afraid they aren't listening at all. He's ashamed to have scared them so badly, and he's just beginning to think that maybe he should sneak away now, let them calm down and try to make their acquaintance later.

Before he can make up his mind to go, another new friend calls out across the river.

Gladthunder hums in surprise. He's never seen anyone quite like this before: not scaled and nearly furless, walking straight as a tree on its hind legs. He knows, of course, that this must be a soft-skin--he's heard _so_ many stories of these most wonderful friends--but he's never even dreamed that he'd get to meet one himself.

He hangs back bashfully as the big flock abandon him in favor of greeting the soft-skin, and _ooooh_. He moans in sympathy as the soft-skin forgets its own strength, a little _too_ enthusiastic in its energetic dance of greeting. That happens to him _all the time_ , and it never gets any less mortifying.

Gazing mournfully across the water, he waits for the soft-skin to creep away to nurse its disappointment in private. It probably won't want to try again after such an embarrassing mistake, but then--then it calls out a greeting! Of course he thinks he must be imagining things, but no--it really is trying to say hello. To him!

Forgetting himself in his excitement, he splashes across the river with the grace of a hatchling, shivery anticipation blooming under his hide. "Hello, friend!" he calls, remembering at the last instant to keep his voice soft for tiny ears. "Please don't be afraid. I promise I am very friendly!"

The little soft-skin tips its head back and back, eyes very wide, but doesn't move away when Gladthunder ducks his head to give him the softest, gentlest of nudges. It chatters at him instead in its teensy little piping voice, putting its paws on his nose. Oh, just look at it--surely this means it wants to be his friend!

He can hardly contain himself when the soft-skin goes looking for food then immediately tries to share it. It's _adorable_ , and Gladthunder wants to follow it everywhere to make certain it's never lonely again. And also to make sure nothing else steps on it. Small friends are so fragile!

As he strolls with his new friend along the riverbank, Gladthunder watches the soft-skin make a few disastrous attempts to befriend Spitters and Stingers, moved to pity by its plight. While small, it seems to be very, very strong, so strong that-- _oh_. Maybe...maybe Gladthunder's scary size is actually a _good_ thing, just this once. He's very strong himself, and the soft-skin's gentle little paw-taps on his nose had felt nothing but nice. Maybe he is exactly the friend his soft-skinned friend needs.

Gladthunder hums happily to himself as he follows his soft-skin away from the river, into the trees and through a narrow rock passage. He has a new friend, and everything is wonderful.

Maybe they'll even go on _adventures_.

***

It's a quiet afternoon that finds Mine with nothing to do and no company from his own kind but Littlest Hen. Littlest Hen bustles excitedly around Mine, heaping strange little gifts in a pile: rocks both dull and colorful, charred bits of wood, a bigger rock with part of the middle chipped out. It's almost embarrassing to watch, except that Mine seems to find the bizarre collection of offerings pleasing, folding his legs beneath him and picking curiously through the pile.

Under Lady's watchful eye--and she's decided she _likes_ being Lady, the respect and admiration it implies--Mine and Littlest Hen sit peacefully in the sun, a modest Ripper's length between them. Littlest Hen relaxes now that her bribe has been accepted, and Lady watches her suspiciously. Mine is uncommonly sensible for a soft-skin most of the time, but under Littlest Hen's influence, he does baffling things like bang rocks with other rocks and mash things until they crumble into dust.

One by one the rest of the pack abandon their restless patrol of the valley, sidling over to watch the soft-skins curiously. Littlest Hen pretends not to care, but she shoots the pack sidelong glances, teeth worrying at her lower lip. Mine just makes his contented face and croons at them softly.

Well. So long as he's happy.

"But what are they doing?" Grimshine asks, nonplussed. "Are they playing? Is this like the thorn sticks?"

Lady taps her claws against the grass as she considers. The thorn sticks that go along with Red Alpha's Favorite's bent branch _are_ interesting, she'll grudgingly admit. Though flimsy-looking, they travel further than a Spitter's venom, felling prey at a distance, which might not be _impressive_ , but for soft-skins is probably wise. She can't even begin to guess what powdered wood-char and crushed rock might become, but she hadn't expected Littlest Hen to turn a pile of wood and stone into an unnatural-looking cave to hide the most terrible nest yet, either.

She's about to wander closer for a more thorough inspection when she feels the first tremors through the ground, warning of an approaching Shaker. Lady lifts her head, scenting the warm air currents flowing in from off the river, but that isn't the dense, ripe musk of an Earthshaker approaching. It's the lighter, sweeter scent of a Shaker-Friend, promising an easy dinner.

She feels the shift in the air as the pack goes alert at her back, waiting on her signal. It's tempting to rush in now while the Shaker is hemmed in by the tight rock walls, but its sheer bulk will cut off one of their escapes until its eaten, and that isn't a thought she's comfortable with. One of the males--she suspects the newest one--lashes his tail impatiently, and for that she waits an extra few moments. It's the first real test of her authority with this new pack, and she means to make certain they are _hers_.

Canting forward on her toes at the first sign of movement at the valley's entrance, she readies herself for a sprint and then freezes in surprise. The stupid Shaker's deep, happy rumbling echoes loudly off the rocks, but over that she hears the distinctive crooning of a soft-skin.

Mine's Favorite walks backwards out of the rock, calling up to the stupid Shaker in a coaxing tone. It follows of course--Shakers like this one will follow _anything_ \--and that's...almost clever. Mine's Favorite may not be much of a hunter, but she's brought a satisfactory dinner home all the same.

Littlest Hen does _not_ take this well. Not well at _all_.

Squawking in outrage, she shoots to her feet, stalking towards Mine's Favorite as Mine slowly rises as well. Lady darts a quick look at him, but he seems neither excited nor displeased, merely thoughtful. She wants to nudge him towards the Big One--this is _good_ behavior; he should be encouraging it--but maybe he's waiting for his suitors to fight.

The stupid Shaker perks up delightedly when he sees them, head slowly tilting down to track Littlest Hen's approach. "Friend?" he calls hopefully, neck curving and then dropping fast, too fast. Littlest Hen doesn't stand a chance.

Mine bolts for the Shaker with the speed of a Ripper, whipping his paws up as he darts between the stupid thing's lightly-armored skull and the unsuspecting Littlest Hen. Strong as he is, the blow knocks the breath out of him all the same, his feet skidding in the grass as the Shaker carries through on his insultingly-familiar nuzzle.

Lady sees _red_.

" _Kill it_ ," she snarls, and the whole pack moves as one to see her order carried out.

She's drawn up short almost from the surprise alone when Mine whirls around, throws out his paws a second time, and barks her name, along with the _stop_ sound. Catching herself in mid-leap, she digs her talons deep into the dirt to check her sprint, rocking a little on her feet as she stares, dumbfounded. No? He wants them _not_ to attack?

Whether they're following her lead or Mine's command, the rest of the pack halts its charge without question, confused but willing.

"What? What's going on?" Lasher asks, living up to his name with the agitated whipping of his tail. "Why aren't we eating it?"

"Maybe...he wants us to save it for later?" Grimshine suggests uncertainly.

Lady would _like_ to believe that, but she suspects that's not the case at all. She's noticed a tendency in the non-hunting members of the pack to dote on helpless things, like the stupid birds they feed as tenderly as their own hatchlings. Maybe they're _all_ broody and show it in different ways. Mine's Favorite has just found a bigger not-hatchling to dote on.

Mine seems very apologetic, grooming away their disappointment as his mate coaxes the Shaker to move a safe distance away. Lady gives in with a sigh. It's not his fault his mate is hungry for a full nest.

"Oh," the Shaker rumbles sheepishly, ducking his head a little as he peers at Lady. "I'm very sorry; that was clumsy of me. I didn't hurt the little soft-skin, did I?"

Lady growls, quiet and low. She may have to suffer this fool, but not without teaching it some manners.

***

When Red Alpha's Favorite comes tearing into the valley with a Bigtooth snapping at her heels, Lady's first thought is, _Really_? Have all the soft-skin females lost their minds? Did this one see Mine's Favorite get away with it and think 'might as well'? And why a Bigtooth, of all things?

She's so busy being appalled, she doesn't think of the danger until Mine gives a loud, sharp whistle, almost like a bird, and makes one of his hunting sounds.

He's pointing at the Bigtooth...she thinks. It'll be an easy mistake to correct if she's wrong.

"That was fun!" their newest member says cheerfully as they begin stripping the carcass. He did well just now, springing into action unflinchingly, and Lady allows herself a rush of fierce pride. A Ripper is only as strong as the courage of its pack, and hers has grown mighty. There are as many of them now as there are soft-skins, and with Mine, they outnumber them. The stupid Shaker doesn't count.

"The bird-whistle--that was clever," Grimshine says, tearing off one of the Bigtooth's arms and spitting it out again. "Think how useful that could be in a hunt."

He makes way politely when Mine comes jogging up, but Mine isn't interested in food. Lady graciously allows his fussing, even though any wounds they might have taken would have been healing already. She's always liked the way he always puts pack first.

"Still," Fleetmaw says, stretching up his chin for a proper scratch as Mine runs his paws over Fleetmaw's deep green hide. "What made Red Alpha's Favorite pick a _Bigtooth_ to tease, anyway?"

Lady snorts. "You think she planned this?"

Silence falls as the others digest the possibility that she did _not_.

"Maybe we should find your Mine some better soft-skins...?"

"If there are any," Lady grumbles. "But we might as well keep an eye out anyway."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun-dun-dunnnnn....


End file.
